Fascination
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: It's a year of change. Hugo is starting Hogwarts, Rose has made an interesting choice in friends, and Ron is...just the same as ever. Marriage, like most of life, isn't easy. Sometimes Hermione wonders if she and Ron just aren't meant to work. And Draco Malfoy sending her flowers isn't helping. Epilogue-compliant. Inspired by JK's comments about Hermione and Ron's compatibility.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So, I'm still alive! I've been working on this epilogue-compliant fic, _Fascination,_ for some time now, after getting terrible writer's block on _He Dreams He's Awake,_ (which I still plan on finishing!)

I am already 62K words into this fic, and only a little over halfway into it. I'd planned on finishing it before publishing on here so that for once there was no risk of me leaving everyone hanging - but the fic is turning out much longer than I'd thought... Oops. So I figured I'd start posting chapters at the rate of one a week, and hopefully will be able to get my arse into gear and finish the fic before I run out of pre-written chapters!

And once _Fascination_ is done, I'll hopefully be able to come back to _He Dreams He's Awake_ with fresh eyes, and get it finished. Once I've done _that,_ then if life allows I'll consider starting on _Axiom,_ the tentatively planned final part of The Risk'verse.

* * *

 **FASCINATION**

 **or**

 _ **A WIZARDING GUIDE TO FLOWER LANGUAGE**_

* * *

 **1.**

"Rose, for God's sake, listen to your father," Hermione snapped at her sulky eldest child as she hurried past the teen and Ron. She was hunting for Hugo, who had suddenly decided that he didn't want to leave Honeywell Junior, the Muggle primary school he'd attended since he'd turned five. It was to be his first year at Hogwarts, and he'd been dreadfully excited up until the day he'd realised his Muggle friends wouldn't be going with him. She was flustered, sweating, frantic, and not in the mood for sorting out arguments. "Do as you're told!"

"You don't even know what he's telling me, Mum!" Rose cried petulantly, and Hermione paused in the doorway, fixing an impatient eye on her fiery daughter and rather hapless looking husband. Couldn't Ron ever learn to pick his bloody battles?

"What is it, then?" she demanded, checking the time on her watch and inwardly screaming. They were going to be late.

"She wants to take makeup to school, 'Mione. She's thirteen. I'm not having her paint her face up like some kind of cheap tart at thirteen," Ron said with a weary kind of frustration, shaking a kit filled with off-brand Muggle makeup in the air. Hermione bit her tongue, squeezed her hands into tight fists, and counted to ten in her head before she answered him. Even so, she still spoke angrily.

"This is hardly the time! When we're running late for the train and I can't even find Hugo - and why doesn't an accio work on children? - honestly! Rose, do as your father says - now."

"But Mu-um," the redheaded girl whinged, looking disappointed and furious at once over being stymied. All her Muggle friends were experimenting - rather badly - with makeup now, and Rose understandably wanted to keep up. Hermione could sympathise, although where she'd been plain, Rose was remarkably pretty, in a quiet, elegant sort of way - when she wasn't sulking that was.

"No! I don't want to hear it! Your father and I will discuss the matter properly later, and if we decide you can have makeup we'll owl it to you - now get ready and get in the car," she snapped at her tearful sulky daughter, and then fled the room shouting for Hugo. She hoped desperately that she would be able to trust Ron to get Rose sorted, but had the sinking feeling that her hopes were going to be dashed. As usual. And they were.

"Can you please stop standing around and get their trunks in the bloody car?" she said as she came across Ron in the sitting room fiddling about with the DVR as she chivvied a found Hugo toward the garage. "Go on, love, hurry up, go get in the car," she told Hugo, giving him a nudge toward the garage. "Seriously, Ron, stop mucking about."

"But if I don't DVR my favourite shows I'll miss 'em all while I'm away, 'Mione!"

"And if we don't hurry up the children will miss the Hogwarts Express, and I'll have to be the one to take them to Hogsmeade, and then Hogwarts, and miss work, not you of course -"

"Because if I miss the portkey then I'll have to Floo-hop my way over to Turkey, and I won't get there in time for the game! Whereas if you're late to work, no one actually cares," Ron retorted with a nasty sort of thoughtlessness. It hurt badly, hearing him say that - saying it so easily that Hermione knew he meant it - and her temper flared as anger sprouted up from her hurt.

"You're only the assistant coach, Ron. Hardly indispensable, as much as you may like to pretend you are." He paled at her viciousness, freckles standing out starkly, then flushed red to his ears, and Hermione took a petty satisfaction in wounding him as badly as he'd wounded her. She knew even as she spoke that she'd regret lashing out, but the words just...happened.

"You always have to rub it in my face, don't you? I'm just never fucking good enough for you. Never."

"Only when you try to put me down by making out that my job is nothing more than petty paper-pushing, Ronald." And then she remembered with a jolt their lateness, and swore under her breath. "Look, now is not the time. We'll talk about it later." She snatched the telly remote from Ron and jammed her finger down on the off button. "Let's go."

"Fine." Ron hefted up the children's luggage, shooting Hermione a resentful glare before heading for the garage, as Hermione checked the house was locked and warded.

Six minutes later the children's trunks were in the boot, the children themselves buckled into the backseat, and Ron was carefully backing the car out of the driveway of their Wandsworth home with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He was a terrible driver and yet insisted on driving them everywhere now he'd gotten his license, regardless of the fact that Hermione was a much better driver than he. Merlin knew how he'd even passed his test - Hermione suspected the illegal use of magic, even as she tried to tell herself Ron would never do something so irresponsible, especially given her job. But she hadn't managed to convince herself.

"She doesn't need makeup, Hermione," Ron was saying now out of nowhere - voice annoyed but pitched low in a fruitless attempt to keep the children from hearing. Hermione knew very well that he was just trying to pick a fight because of their squabble inside. She squinted into the tiny mirror on her sun visor, trying to beat her hair into some semblance of order.

"Let's not discuss it now, Ronald." She didn't like arguing in front of the children.

"You always say that." He shot her a look, a complicated expression shaping his face, nearly clipping a car as he pulled out of a quiet street onto a far busier road without giving way. He was going far too fast for the traffic-packed street and not looking where he was going and -

"Merlin, Ron!" Hermione slapped her hands against the dashboard to steady herself as they screeched to a halt to avoid rear ending the car in front, her hair falling out of the half-finished bun she'd been twisting it into. Rose squealed in fright and surprise, and Hugo yelped and laughed at once.

"Watch it dad!"

"Shit!" Ron ignored the chorus of toots breaking out from cars behind and ahead of him, and tried to look very serious and conscientious.

"Dad swo-ore!" Rose tattled in vengeance for the makeup ban, and Hermione tried not to explode with rage at everyone.

"Focus on the road, Ronald!" she added to the cacophony inside the car, her tone shrill and nagging, just as Ron kept complaining she was lately. But she couldn't help it, could she? Not when he was being so bloody unhelpful and frustrating. Not when he kept putting her down, and being stupidly overbearing, and frankly, driving her round the twist. She swallowed down her anger, twirling her still-too-bushy hair back into a haphazard bun and pinning it firmly in place with a mix of Muggle bobby pins and magic. The day had barely begun and she already couldn't wait for it to be over.

* * *

 **A/N:** Please leave a review if you enjoyed it, to encourage me to keep writing :D It's rather different to my usual genre/timeline, but I have really loved writing this fic so far. It's very different - and very fun! - to work with Hermione and Draco, and all the others, as adults.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much everyone for the reviews! I so appreciate all the feedback :) I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

 **2.**

They arrived at Platform 9 & 3/4s with twenty minutes to spare, thanks to very good luck with the London traffic. Harry and Ginny waved them over to the spot they had claimed as their own, clustered together with the other Weasleys and Andromeda Tonks. Even though they'd just had dinner at the Burrow a week gone, there were hugs all around. While Ron chattered animatedly to Harry about the game today, Hermione crouched down and squeezed Hugo tightly. She pressed her lips to his forehead, and then sat back on her heels and looked up at her youngest - her baby, now seeming so tall and gangly in his Hogwarts uniform. How had he grown up so quickly? She swallowed down a lump in her throat and swiped at her eyes as she stood.

" _Mum_. You're not _crying_ are you?" Hugo asked with all the embarrassed discomfort of a pre-teen boy, and Hermione sniffled wetly and shook her head, fussing with Hugo's crooked tie and neatening the well-starched collar of his shirt.

"Of course not, darling."

Hugo bumped her arm gently with a loose fist and smiled bravely up at her.

"Liar."

"Oh Hugo. I can't believe...it seems like just yesterday you were...well, much littler," Hermione said lamely. "And now look at you. All grown up and off to Hogwarts. And you'll have such fun, but oh I'm going to _miss_ you, darling."

"I'm gonna miss you too, mum. And David and Sanjeet and Skye and the rest of m' mates," he said forlornly, face falling at the thought of his friends from the Muggle school he'd attended since he was five.

"Well, you can owl me, with letters enclosed for me to post on to your friends. And I'll owl you twice a week, promise. And you can see all your friends every holidays. I'll talk to their mums and arrange something in advance."

"Like paintball? Or laser tag? Or -"

"Well I was thinking a trip to the museum, but paintball sounds like much more fun, Hugo," Hermione agreed with a chuckle and kissed him on the forehead once more, smoothing his messy brown hair with absent fingers. Hugo was an excellent student just like his sister and mother, but unlike either of them he was far more active, and loved sports. Like his father, Hermione supposed, and cringed at the negative tone to her mental voice at the thought of Ron. It made her feel guilty, even as annoyed and hurt as she still was with him. It felt like they were always offside with each other these days, and she hated it. It seemed like forever since they'd last had the dynamic of best friends, along with the tension of lovers, instead of the tension of stress and power plays, and constant misunderstandings. Years and years... She missed it.

"Hugo! Come on - I'm taking Lily, Lucy, and Louis to go find an empty carriage before they all get claimed and we can't sit together. If we hurry we might be able to get one on the platform side so we can wave goodbye to everyone," Albus Potter said, appearing from nowhere like a wee ghost, with a shy smile for Hermione. "Hi Aunt 'Mione."

"Hullo, Albus. Excited to be going back?"

"Sort of," Albus shrugged ultra-casually, with all the 'experience' of a newly minted second year, and then elbowed his younger cousin. "Come on, Hugo. The others are waiting."

"Go on, darling. Write to let me know what house you get Sorted into as soon as you get a chance," Hermione said as Hugo hugged her tightly again. Her skinny little boy was headed off to Hogwarts at last, and Merlin her heart felt heavy and full to breaking with the loss of him, and the pride of who he was growing to be.

"I'll cross my fingers for you getting Sorted into Gryffindor," Ron said as he crushed Hugo into his arms. "But anything other than Slytherin is fine by me - I'll have to disown you if it's Slytherin, I'm afraid."

"Ron!"

"He knows I'm only teasing, Hermione," Ron chided, and ruffled up Hugo's just-tidied hair. "Have fun, yeah? And don't get caught making trouble." He dropped a wink at Hugo, and for a moment Hermione saw her husband at eighteen again spark to life in the lopsided grin he gave their son. Her heart flared and warmed, and as Hugo went running off with Albus, she slipped her hand into his. Ron gave a start, and then smiled distractedly down at her, weaving their fingers together.

"Where's Rose gone? Off with her friends?" Hermione began, expecting her daughter to have run off with the relations she got on best with at home - James, Molly, and Roxanne, the three who were closest to her age. But Molly and Roxanne were giggling together with the ever-beautiful Fleur, and James was talking animatedly with a boy Hermione didn't know. "I can't see her anywhere. Can you see where she's got to?"

Ron looked around the platform for a moment, and then made a choking, furious noise, squeezing Hermione's hand too hard and forcing her to wrench her poor squashed fingers away and stare at him in concern.

" _Ron?_ "

"Merlin's fucking _balls_ , our Rosie's over there with Scorpius bloody Malfoy," Ron growled, shoving his hands in his jeans' pockets and slouching as though he were a moody teen, jerking his chin in the direction of the lower end of the platform. Anger made him taut and red faced, teeth gritted together.

" _What?_ " Hermione craned her neck to see, needing to see it with her own eyes to believe it. "No. She _can't_ be."

Rose had never mentioned being friends with Scorpius Malfoy, and somehow Hermione couldn't imagine it - a Weasley half-blood, friends with a Malfoy? The Malfoys would never allow it. Then she saw the top of a red head close to pale blond one in the crowd, down the end of the platform Ron had nodded to, and went up on her toes to see better.

"Oh my god. Merlin's sake, it is too!" She stayed up on her toes in her sensible court shoes, hand on Ron's arm for balance.

"Everyone'll pitch a fit if Rosie goes out with that little ferret," Ron said darkly, glaring down the platform at the two teens.

"You mean _you'll_ pitch a fit," Hermione retorted, gaze on her daughter. Rose was in her uniform but not her robes, and her face was a far cry from the sulky expression she'd treated her parents to all morning. Instead she was smiling and laughing from what Hermione could see, and young Scorpius was grinning too - as Hermione watched, he reached out and tugged at the end of Rose's plait, saying something that made the girl giggle and blush, and shove at him playfully.

"I don't think that'll be an issue anyway," Hermione said thoughtfully, after watching them a moment longer.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind." She smiled faintly at Ron. "I'll go give her a hug goodbye - and tell her to come over and say goodbye to you, if you don't want to have to be polite to a Malfoy." She left Ron's side without waiting for his answer - she knew what it would be, and it rather disappointed her that he wasn't willing to make his own assessment of Scorpius Malfoy. Hermione didn't hold the boy's being a Malfoy against him - she would judge him on his own merits. And given that Rose generally had good judgement when it came to people, Scorpius' apparent friendship with her daughter spoke quite favourably of him.

"Rose," Hermione smiled at her daughter as the girl spun around to stare at her wide-eyed. Scorpius Malfoy was just as wide-eyed from beneath his long platinum-blond fringe, and nervy too. The pair of them looked as though they'd been caught doing something terrible, rather than just talking and laughing together.

"Mum!" Rose looked around behind Hermione, tense and uncertain. "Where's Dad?"

"With the rest of the family. Why?" she asked, playing innocent.

"Oh, he... Never mind."

"I've just come to say goodbye, my darling, and remind you to go give your father a hug before you get on the train." Hermione was warm and reassuring, snugging an arm around her tall daughter's shoulders in a hug, and kissing her temple. Then she let go and smiled at Scorpius. "And who is this?"

"This is, um, Scorpius, Mum." Rose bit her lip.

"Scorpius _Malfoy_ ," the boy said unapologetically, pointed chin held high, as he put out a hand with painful formality. Hermione took it and shook, noting his firm grip, direct, honest gaze, and dark-blue nail polish. Scorpius looked startlingly like his father in features, and yet nothing like him at all. He seemed fey and somehow slight despite his obvious height, his pale grey eyeliner-smudged eyes bright and brittle, and his mouth shaped into a tentative, guarded smile.

"It's lovely to meet you, Scorpius," Hermione said honestly. It was immediately clear that the boy was nothing like his father had been at the same age; she wondered idly if that was because, or in spite of, his father. Draco Malfoy certainly _seemed_ like he was still an unlikable, arrogant git from what little Hermione saw of him at the Ministry. "I didn't know you and Rose were friends." She smiled at him warmly again, and he began to thaw, smiling back and looking suddenly very sweet with it.

"I -" Rose flushed and looked down, scuffing her toes on the ground. "We've been friends since the end of first year, but...I thought you and Dad might be mad. You know..."

"I do, Rose." Hermione felt a rush of sympathy for her daughter. "I do, unfortunately. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. And while I can't speak for your father, I am not at all in the slightest upset that you've made friends with Scorpius."

"How very magnanimous of you, Granger," a voice drawled from behind her, and Hermione's shoulders stiffened as her stomach sank.

"Father..." Scorpius protested in a near whisper, his mouth tightening, the sweet smile giving way to a guarded, tense expression. Before Hermione turned to face Malfoy, she noticed the way that Rose's hand slipped into Scorpius' and held on tightly, the two of them standing together, united. And then she was facing Draco Malfoy. He wore a dark grey Muggle-style suit, with silver cufflinks at his sleeves and his striped tie tugged loose, top button of his shirt undone. It had been a very long time since Hermione had been so close to him for so long, and she noted that his hair was shorter now than she'd ever seen it and rumpled as though he'd been shoving his hands through it. His pointed face had become less so with the encroachment of middle age, and he had new lines at the corners of his eyes that rather suited him, oddly enough, as did the rough stubble that dusted his jaw, a shade darker than his hair.

"Granger- _Weasley_ , actually," Hermione forced a smile to her lips, glad that she was wearing one of her work outfits rather than her around-the-house mum jeans and tee-shirt. She could stand up to his careful scrutiny in a well-tailored pencil skirt with a plum coloured blouse; clothing that flattered her breasts and hips, and mostly disguised the middle-aged spread that made her middle softer and bum a little more generous. Even if her hair was a flyaway mess. "Or Hermione, if you'd rather." She refused to rise to any of Malfoy's baiting, and upset her daughter or Scorpius. She held out her hand to Malfoy, half expecting him to rebuff her. But instead he reached out and took her hand, a smile tugging lopsided at his mouth as though he knew exactly what she was playing at, and would match her move for move.

"I still find myself preferring _Granger_ ," Draco said smoothly as he shifted his grip on Hermione's hand and raised it to his lips, touching them soft to the back of her fingers. Her heart stumbled in its beat in bewildered shock, and her forced smile wavered hopelessly. She jerked her hand back too quickly, and Malfoy's face flickered through a complicated array of emotions, before settling on what looked to her like amused superiority.

"I was just making the acquaintance of your son," Hermione said swiftly, moving the conversation toward safer ground, instead of the quicksand she'd found herself in. "You must be very proud of him." And this, she thought, was when she would discover if Scorpius was a lovely young man because, or in spite of, his father. And Malfoy smiled at his son with an echo of the same sweet expression Scorpius had, and reached forward to cup his son's cheek gently in his hand.

"Very," was all he said, the one quiet word nearly lost to the noise of the crowd, as he stared down at his son with unguarded, unmistakeable love and pride. Hermione felt suddenly like an intruder, to be seeing that expression on Malfoy's face.

"Father," Scorpius whined in embarrassment, despite his obvious pleasure at the affection, pushing his father's hand down and hunching his shoulders, cheeks pinking. Then Malfoy turned his eyes on Rose, who still clutched Scorpius' hand.

"And I presume then that this is the lovely Miss Weasley that I hear so much about from Scorpius?" Malfoy asked expectantly, eyebrow arching.

"Y-yes. It's nice to meet to meet you, Mister Malfoy," Rose said, ducking her head shyly, and Malfoy smiled - not the oddly sweet expression that he'd given his son, but nonetheless a genuine-seeming expression, which looked almost as unnatural on Malfoy's face. It was altogether too warm and kind to be on _Malfoy's_ face.

"And you, Miss Weasley. A pleasure. You're just as lovely as your mother," Malfoy said, and Hermione tensed in confusion. That _had_ to be an insult. And yet...it didn't seem he meant it that way. There was none of the scathing undertone that would have been there had he meant to be insulting. Hermione saw Rose flick a curious glance toward her, and avoided her daughter's questioning look, staring instead at her own hands. What the hell was Malfoy playing at?

Malfoy cleared his throat then, changing his tone. "Scorpius, your mother actually dispatched me over here because she wishes to say goodbye to you. You can catch up with Miss Weasley on the train, but your mother will apparently be _utterly devastated_ should you not farewell her." There was an edge to Malfoy's voice that was unmistakable as he spoke of his wife - it reminded Hermione uncomfortably of the way she sometimes spoke of Ron. Scorpius rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Yes, father. It was good to meet you, Mrs Granger-Weasley."

"You too, Scorpius," Hermione answered, watching the polite young boy disappear into the crowd with a wave of one slim hand to Rose. "Come on, Rose, we'd better go find your father," she said. "Erm, it was," she tried hesitantly as she took a step back, feeling awkward and off-balance again. Malfoy's pale grey eyes were too steady on hers. "...good to see you, Malfoy," she fumbled, thoughts scattering like frightened birds under his calm gaze.

"And you, Granger," he said, and unlike her, he _meant_ it, in a way that shook her to the ground and made her mind go blank and stupid. He tilted a corner of his mouth up in a faint hint of a smile and nodded politely to Hermione and Rose, before heading off in the direction that Scorpius had gone. Hermione blinked dazedly, and then spun on her heel and headed briskly toward Ron and the rest of the extended family.

"What was _that_ about, Mum?" Rose ventured curiously as she followed in Hermione's wake through the crowd.

"What was what?" Hermione played dumb, glancing back at her daughter with a meaningless, blank sort of smile.

"With Mister Malfoy," Rose said meaningfully, raising her eyebrows at her mother, and Hermione shrugged, feeling horribly uncomfortable and breaking out in a flush of sweaty heat for reasons she didn't understand, but attributed entirely to Malfoy's strange behaviour. It had _flustered_ her. And since when was Rose old enough to notice things like the honey-dark tone to Malfoy's voice?

"I have no idea, Rose. I would have been less surprised if he'd called me a mudblood and spat in my face," she told her daughter rather too bluntly, and then sighed. "I suppose he's...changed, since I last spoke to him. He certainly seemed more polite. And that's an understatement."

"When did you last speak to him?" Rose prodded, hooking her arm through Hermione's and falling in stride with her, and Hermione remembered. Was it really so long ago? Twenty-one years; after the war, but before the trials. Speaking to him through bars, wanting to understand and not reaching any understanding at all, because all he'd had was rage and fear and all she'd had was rage and righteousness, and he'd said terrible things, and so had she, and Ron had said " _I told you so_ " and she'd slapped him for it.

But she'd never spoken to Malfoy again. Not even when he passed her in the hallways at the Ministry every few weeks or so these past few years, and greeted her with a politeness she had thought was spite, but perhaps hadn't been after all. She had avoided him at the few official parties she and Ron had attended over the years, and happily, despite his minor position on the Wizengamot, she'd never had to interact with him. Today was the first time she had spoken a word to him since she'd told him that she would never forgive him for what he'd done, no matter what the result of the trial. He had disappeared for a long time after that trial; excused of his crimes but hiding from the public eye completely, until nearly a decade ago, when he'd taken the seat on the Wizengamot that he was entitled to by virtue of his blood.

"A very, very long time ago," Hermione said simply, and then heaved a sigh and nudged her daughter in the side as they wended their way through the crowd. "So...Scorpius Malfoy, hmm?"

"Ew, Mum! It's not like that!"

"Oh, I know _that_ , Rose. I'm not stupid, my darling." A pause. "He seems nice. I'm sorry I made you feel you couldn't tell me about being friends with him."

Rose shrugged.

"Doesn't matter, Mum. I'm glad you like him, though."

"Me too, Rose." Hermione stopped as they reached the edge of the Weasley-Potter conglomeration, and pulled Rose into her arms, wondering where this beautiful young woman nearly as tall now as Hermione herself had sprouted up from. She'd grown up too much over the summer holidays. "I love you, sweetheart."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** It's my birthday today! Happy 29th to me! XD Thank you everyone for your wonderful, motivating, critiquing reviews - I love getting your feedback so much *loves* I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **3.**

"So, are we ever going to talk?" Ron broke the suffocating silence that had stretched out between them since they'd waved the children off at the station. It was obvious _what_ Ron wanted to talk about from his grim tone, and the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel, as he flicked a cautious glance at her.

"Ron, we hardly have _time_. I have to get to work, and you have a portkey to catch," Hermione said tightly as Ron pulled the car into the garage. He jerked on the handbrake and leant back in his seat with a sigh, rolling his head to stare at her in the dim gloom of the garage. His hair was as thick as ever, but there were more grey threads through the red than ever, and his eyes were tired and shadowed beneath - he looked old and worn.

"You say that every time we fight."

"Because we _don't!_ " Hermione protested. "If we're not busy with the children, then I've got work at the Ministry, and you're off half the time with the Quidditch team, and...we just don't have time." But her words sounded hollow and sad even to herself, like giving up. She loved Ron, but things were just so hard, right now. They kept fighting and fighting, about the same things over and over - Hermione being too work focused, Ron's long stretches away from home, Hermione's refusal to move closer to the Burrow, and underneath it all, Ron's bloody inferiority complex. Nothing _ever_ got resolved, so the same Merlin-damned arguments just kept happening again and again and _again_.

"You can't fix a problem by ignoring it, Hermione. I may have the emotional range of a teaspoon, as you so dearly bloody love to say, but even _I_ know that."

"Well, when you figure out how to fix you telling me that my job is pointless and worthless, you can tell me about it," she said, full of bitterness, shoving the car door open viciously.

"That's not _fair_."

"I think it is," she said, getting out of the car and slamming the door behind her. She stormed past him as he got out, calling her name as she reached the door into the spacious end-terrace house.

"I love you, Hermione." The words stopped her in her tracks, her hand on the doorknob and throat tight with emotion, head swimming. She looked back, at Ron standing by the car with pleading and apology on his face, and over twenty years of commitment stretching out between them. Her heart wrenched and ached.

"I - I love you too. I do," she confessed. It confused her that saying the words aloud made her heart feel heavier instead of lighter, like shackles on her ankles, hobbling her. And yet she _did_ love him, and his arms folding around her _did_ feel like comfort and warmth and home, and she didn't understand why she felt so...tired. "I'm sorry. I'm just...stressed. What with Hugo starting at school..." she began, not even believing her own excuses. Ron believed though, because he _wanted_ to, and he smiled and nodded and kissed her gently on the mouth.

"We're going to work on things, okay? This year, with both the kids away at Hogwarts - this year can be for _us_. For - for reconnecting, yeah? Getting things back to how they used to be." He gave her a hopeful smile, and what could she do but nod? She pushed down the part of her that said they were just going in endless, dissatisfied circles, and focused on the small part of her that said that maybe things could be different. That maybe things could be _good_ again, like they had been at the very beginning after the war, and then again when the children were little. Those magical years that had faded to this dull routine and slow-building resentment.

"But now I really have to go, 'Mione." He kissed her again, more thoroughly this time, and he was hot and warm and skilful, just the way she liked, and yet it left her cold.

"How long will you be gone, this time?" Hermione asked as she followed Ron into the sitting room, twisting her wedding ring around and around on her finger. Ron was supposed to mark his trips off on the calendar, but he always forgot.

"Five weeks. But I can come back on the Mondays, and stay the night," he told her, and Hermione nodded dully. Five weeks. That was a little longer than usual. But she told Ron she would miss him, and tucked a somewhat magically-compatible phone in his pocket with the instructions to call her every few days, and kissed him on the cheek. Like a good wife. And then Ron went through the floo in a flare of green flame and a puff of soot, and Hermione was left standing in her empty, quiet sitting room, filled with a sense of _relief_ that left her feeling guilty and cast adrift.

* * *

Hermione missed the children madly - especially Hugo, who had been Sorted into Hufflepuff - and wrote to them every second day for the first week of term, sitting in the study in the evenings at her desk and scratching away with her quill, the house silent around her. She planned on writing again tonight after the simple dinner that she was eating at the breakfast bar while she read through case files. Or tried to read - with Ron due home for a flying visit the day after tomorrow, Hermione's mind kept wandering to him, and their rather undeniable _issues_.

She hadn't called Ron once yet since he had gone, nor had he called her - although he'd texted the first day, to say he'd arrived safely in Turkey. He'd been away with the Quidditch team six days now, and Hermione just...didn't miss him. If she was honest with herself, she _enjoyed_ not feeling obliged to be home by five sharp to cook his tea, even if she had work she wanted to finish. She _liked_ not having him take up the couch with the telly blaring on the sports while _she_ cleaned up the house, because when he did it he never got it quite right, so she'd given up on him doing the cleaning.

Their lovely old three bed, two bath home in Wandsworth felt empty without the children clattering about - especially with Hugo gone - but Hermione didn't pine for Ron one jot. She told herself that nearly every marriage was probably like this; it had been 19 years now, since they'd tied the knot in the Burrow's garden. Things were bound to get stale after so long. Weren't they? But Ginny and Harry seemed just as sickeningly in love as ever, and Percy worshipped Audrey, and George and Angelina seemed perfectly in sync in their own way.

Hermione wondered what she and Ron looked like from the outside - did they seem happy, or did they appear as discontented as Hermione felt? Were the others content, or were they too hiding unhappiness? Hermione had no idea. But given the amount she and Ron kept rowing whenever they tried to discuss their issues, Hermione couldn't see a way to repairing things that wasn't just another plaster of denial and avoidance. Except ignoring the root cause of their unhappiness was precisely the approach that wasn't working; it hadn't been working for years and wasn't likely to start now.

Dinner gone, Hermione sank her head into her hands and groaned. If only things could be how they had been when the children were little, Hermione was a stay-at-home mum, and Ron had just gotten his first really promising job, as assistant coach to a proper professional Quidditch team. They had been happy then; in their lovely new house.

They had bought it shortly after the war, using their combined monetary rewards from the Ministry for 'services to Wizarding Britain'. It had been 40,000 Galleons all up, which had paid for £200,000 of the £370,000 house in late 2002, which had been rather rundown at the time and thus a steal for the area and spaciousness. They'd paid off the Muggle mortgage several years ago, and thanks to magic, renovating the house had been much cheaper and easy than it would have been for Muggles. They could sell it now for well over half a million easily. Out of nowhere, she wondered what would happen if they split up. Would they sell the house, and split the money evenly? Hermione blinked, shaking her head free of the depressing thoughts of now, and focusing on the memories, trying to remember the times that they had been happy.

Ron had been gone with the team for well over a week at a time, and Hermione had been caring for first one baby, then a preschooler and a baby, on her own, having given up the new career she'd only just begun - and loved - because everyone insisted the babies needed their mother, not a nursery, and even part-time work was out of the question. And they hadn't had enough money because they'd only had the one income and it had all been going toward paying off the mortgage, and Hermione's mother had unexpectedly and devastatingly died of a heart attack when Rose was four, and Molly had been _too_ involved, and Hermione had known she was only trying to help, except it hadn't been a help, and...

Well, when she put it that way...then _no_ , as much as she wanted to only remember the good, golden memories - and there were many - she hadn't always been happy back then. Things had always been somewhat fraught between her and Ron - different perspectives, different goals in life, different interests - but there had always been other things to distract her from their differences. To just make things work. But now, with both the children off to Hogwarts, and a relatively uneventful, easy life stretching ahead, there was nothing to distract Hermione from what suddenly seemed like a fundamental incompatibility. Fundamental incompatibility; the words caused a sinking, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as they whirled through her head.

Hermione sighed to herself as she washed up the last of the dishes from her small meal, drying them with a spell and sending them to float into the crockery cupboard. She wished dearly that she had someone to talk to about her growing feelings of dissatisfaction, but all _her_ friends were _Ron's_ friends too. And with her mother passed away, Hermione didn't have anyone to ask if she was being unfair to Ron or expecting too much of their marriage after so many years together. So like always, she told herself very firmly that she loved Ron, and they had built a life with each other, and so she would not bottle things up and let them fester any longer, but would talk very calmly to him on Monday about working on their relationship.

* * *

The talk didn't go well.

Ron had texted Hermione the night before to say he'd be flooing in by 7pm at the very latest, and she'd decided to cook a pasta for dinner. She'd finished it at precisely seven, and then began wishing that she hadn't when the fireplace failed to flare the green that would herald Ron's arrival. After spending a good fifteen minutes pottering about the lounge straightening the ornaments on the mantel and plumping the settee cushions, so as to hover anxiously near the fireplace, Hermione gave up on the hope that dinner would be salvageable. She wasn't a very good cook at the best of times, and she was at an utter loss for how to either preserve or revive the pasta.

So Hermione sat down at the dining table in the elegant cowl neck Gryffindor-red dress she'd worn to surprise Ron, and poured herself a large glass of nettle wine, propping her elbows on the tabletop and heaving a sigh. She polished off three glasses of the wine as she waited, growing ever more angry with each passing minute and no word from Ron, dinner turning gluggy on the table. By 8:30 she was miserable and on the verge of tears, wondering why in the hell she had ever hoped they could have a romantic evening.

And the evening didn't really get any better from there.

Ron turned up at ten o'clock, tumbling through the floo all sooty and a bit worse the wear for drink.

"'Mione! I'm home!" he bellowed cheerily, and Hermione flinched, jaw twitching and fingers tightening on the stem of her wine glass. He was grinning, blue eyes bright and mellow as he came into the dining room, but when he saw the way Hermione stood up to face him all stiff and furious, glaring at him, his grin faded.

"'Mione? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is that you turn up three bloody hours late, you great drunken git! Dinner is _ruined_ , and so is the whole Merlin-damned evening, so good job, Ron. _Good. Job._ "

"Late? But I said seven..."

Hermione felt sorry for him as he stammered out the words, his happiness giving way to the same helpless misery she was feeling. But his idiocy and her anger outweighed her sympathy.

"It's ten o'clock, Ron!" she cried, flinging a hand in the direction of the clock. "Ten o'clock, not seven! I've been waiting all bloody evening." Ron's expression suddenly dropped in horror.

"Oh shit. Oh shit. I can't believe it. I'm such a fucking idiot -"

"Yeah, you are," she muttered darkly and Ron shot her a hurt look and went on, an odd mix of pleading explanation and irritation in his tone.

"I meant seven in Turkish time, Hermione. _Turkish_ time. Merlin, I'm sorry, I didn't even think about the bloody time difference." Ron seemed sincerely sorry as he stepped up to Hermione, blue eyes beseeching, reaching out to her. She let him grip her upper arms in his large, warm hands, fingers curling gently around as he met her gaze, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "I'm so, so sorry." And maybe she should have laughed and forgiven him, and they could have gone down to the local chippy for dinner, but all Hermione felt was _tired_. She should have realised then, but she didn't, not yet.

"I forgot about the time distance too, Ron, to be fair," Hermione said wearily, looking up at him. "I can't be angry with you for that. But even allowing for the time difference, you're still an hour late!" Her voice shot up and wavered, and she had to stop and take a breath and reign herself in. Ron looked nothing but sheepish now.

"I - I stopped at the pub for a drink with the boys," he mumbled, head ducked as he let go of her arms and ran a hand through his hair, shuffling his feet on the floor like a boy that had been caught in mischief and not a 39 year-old father of two. "It was only s'posed to be a quick one. I guess I lost track of time."

"I guess you did," Hermione answered coldly, because wasn't that always the way? It had happened more and more as the years had gone by. Whenever Ron got the chance he was out of the house - when he wasn't away with the team he was down the pub with 'the boys', or off with Harry doing their stupid male bonding thing, Because somewhere along the line, it had gone from the trio always hanging out together, to Ron and Harry going off while Hermione was stuck home minding the children. Oh, the three of them saw each other regularly at the Burrow, and Hermione had occasional lunches just her and Harry, and Ron spent loads of time with the kids, and with all four of them together... But the last time she and Ron had gone on a date, just the two of them, had been the Ministry Christmas do.

"I'm sorry, 'Mione, honestly. I didn't know you were going to any kind of trouble, or I'd have... I mean, you never usually bother with anything fancy." Ron sighed in frustration. "Look, why don't we just order in pizza, and never mind the dinner? We can snuggle on the couch and watch a movie - your choice." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said 'snuggle', and gave Hermione a hopeful, cheering kind of expression, and she felt herself unbend a little. "Go on, get out of your kit and put on your jimjams while I call for the pizza." Hermione stiffened up again at his dismissal of the - expensive - red dress that the sales clerk had insisted looked 'right fit'; Ron hadn't even told her she looked nice, come to think of it.

"But I dressed up for _you_..." she said falteringly, and Ron swore under his breath and looked rather like he wanted to 'facepalm' as Hugo's friend Skye would say.

"Oh Merlin's saggy left testicle, 'Mione, you _know_ I don't give a fig about what you're wearing - I'm only going to take it off anyway. There's no point to it, is there?"

"I suppose not," she snapped, stupidly on the verge of tears - she blamed it on the wine. "God, Ron, all I wanted was a nice romantic evening! If I'd wanted to sit around on the couch in my ratty old pyjamas and stuff my face with greasy pizza, I wouldn't have bothered with all _this_." She'd tamed her hair into soft curls and pinned it half up, leaving some loose curls to drape over her shoulders and neck, and actually bothered with makeup for once - with striking red lippy to match her dress and her one pair of Louboutins. Ron of course, had noticed none of it, and Hermione thought perhaps she should have known better than to think he would.

"Oh...yeah. Right. I'm s-" Hermione cut Ron off before he could finish, because if she heard one more mumbled 'I'm sorry' she would _scream_. And hex him.

"I thought you said this was our year to - to reignite things between us, to rekindle the _bloody_ spark, and focus on _us_!"

"Yeah, well - well not _now_ ," Ron said stupidly, and Hermione fisted her hands at her sides and bit her tongue hard before she answered, trying desperately to stay calm.

"Not. Now," she repeated crisply. "Not. Now. Well if not now, then _when?_ I'm starting to think you going and getting drunk with your bloody mates is more important to you than our _relationship_ , Ronald. You've always got time to go have a drink with them - you'll _make_ time - but when I want to have a nice evening together, you turn up at least an hour late, half-pissed, don't even notice I've made an effort, and tell me tonight isn't the right bloody night to be - be romantic!"

"'Mione - 'Mione I'm an idiot - I'm sorry, I -"

"You're a fucking _arse_ Ronald Weasley," Hermione shouted at him, blinking fiercely as tears blurred her eyes. "Order yourself in pizza if you like, but I'm going to _bed_." And she stormed out of the lounge and up the stairs to their bedroom, hauling his pillows off the bed and flinging them down the staircase, before stomping back in and slamming the door behind her. She didn't know why he'd even bothered coming home. Tears pricked at her eyes as she slid her shoes off, pulled the pins out of her hair, and sat down on the edge of their bed with a wobbly sigh. Tonight had been supposed to be a nice night, not this horrid disaster that right now felt like the death knell for their marriage.

Hermione drifted out of bewildering dreams to the touch of a hand on her shoulder, trailing down over her collarbones and her breasts, and Ron nuzzling at her temple. "...up, 'Mione...wake uh-up," he was whispering in a sing-song, and she grumbled as she surfaced into dark, drowsy wakefulness, to find herself curled in their bed with Ron kneeling on top of the covers beside her.

"Wha?"

"'Mione? Can I come to bed? The couch hurts my back, and I miss you," Ron murmured forlornly, eyes navy in the dim light filtering in through the curtains from the streetlights outside. He sat back a bit, waiting, and Hermione could just barely make out the miserable apology that shaped his face in the darkness. She grumbled incoherently again and shifted onto her back, lifting a hand up to stroke Ron's stubbled jaw, and rub her thumb light over his full mouth. He was in nothing but his shorts, skin shining pale, still quite fit for his age, save a slight beer gut that had settled round his middle.

"Oh come on then," Hermione relented, shoving at the covers, and Ron scrambled under them, bringing a pillow with him and rolling to face her, arm hooking over her waist. He pulled her close and nuzzled at her cheek, mouthed the sensitive skin just along her jaw, and then drew back and grinned wickedly at her when she shivered in reaction.

"I know it's late and we've both got to be up early tomorrow, but it's been over a month, 'Mione," he said softly, coaxingly, as his hand crept up beneath the short cotton nightie she wore. Hermione had to count back to be sure - but yeah, sure enough they hadn't had sex since they'd gone away on that week long family trip to France with the children, during the summer holidays. God, that made her feel old and pathetic - well over a month since they'd had any sex except the solo kind, and she hadn't even _realised_. What was wrong with her? So she let her legs fall apart and slid her arms up around Ron's neck, drawing him down to her and kissing him long and gentle.

"Go on then," she said with a sleepy smirk when his fingers beat a questioning drum beat on the flesh of her inner thigh, and he grinned and shifted between her legs without further ado. He shoved his shorts down with haste, before covering her mouth with his own, and sliding his fingers up her inner thigh, finding her clit with his thumb and twirling lazy figure eights over it. Hermione sighed; this was...nice. Comfortable and nice and it felt like a step in the right direction, maybe. But when Ron's - perfunctory and impatient, if she was honest - touches didn't make Hermione slick and wet, instead of sliding down between her legs he pulled away from her and flailed for the bedside drawers.

"Ron? Come back. I want...you know..." she said, wiggling her legs and waiting for his hot mouth on her, because for all of his faults, Ron had always been enthusiastic in bed. Sure, they hadn't had sex regularly for quite a while, between him travelling and them just being too tired at nights, but when they _did_ , it was mostly very thorough. And he _liked_ to make her cum, like he had in France, with her clutching at his hair and gasping expletives, hips arching up and waves of pleasure cramping through her. Just the fuzzy memory was enough to make Hermione desperate to get off. "Ron, hurry up," she whinged.

"Hang on, don't worry, I won't be keeping you up late, you'll get your beauty rest, love," he rambled as he fumbled around in the drawer, and then dug out the lube, holding it up victoriously with a grin, as if he thought she'd be _pleased_ or something. Like he was wanting to be helpful.

"All set," he said, popping the cap open and slicking a dollop of lube over the head of his erection, and Hermione sighed inwardly. _Right_ , just a quickie then, and no orgasm for her. Of _course_. Hermione had no idea why she'd expected anything else, given how the rest of their evening had gone. She didn't want to argue though, or hurt his feelings by refusing him - even a quickie was better than the coldness of sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, with a gulf of silence between them. So Hermione let her eyes fall shut, and accepted Ron's gentle kisses with a tired resignation as he slowly eased into her.

It was all gone wrong.

* * *

 **A/N:** More Draco and less Ron next chapter! Which is a trend that will continue throughout the fic, haha. I know it may be frustrating to have so much Hermione/Ron, but I'm focusing on Hermione and Ron's marriage to try to present a realistic situation, and to do Ron's character justice so as not to make him out to be a terrible person. Neither he nor Hermione are bad people, but they're very different, and a marriage with two very different people can be hard to maintain without dedicating time to building commonalities. In JK's canon as shown in the Cursed Child, they clearly do dedicate that time, and make it work - in this fic, things went a little differently and their bonding fell by the wayside, which has led them to this point, where things are just unravelling.

I hope this makes for a realistic and sympathetic scenario, that doesn't paint either side as the villain (although obviously because the fic is from Hermione's POV, she will think badly of Ron, even when perhaps she shouldn't, because she too has her flaws.)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** You all are the best - thank you so much for all the feedback!

* * *

 **4.**

"Granger," a familiar voice drawled from nearly right in front of her, making Hermione jerk to a halt as she jumped half out of her skin.

"Jesus!" she squeaked, slamming her hand against her chest and dropping half the contents of the file she'd had her nose buried in as she'd hurried along the Ministry corridors, heading back to her office post-lunch in town with Ginny. They fluttered to the floor like a miniature snowstorm, and she groaned inwardly. "Malfoy." She blinked her eyes into focus, adjusting from having them glued to the tiny print in the case file. "Merlin, you scared me half to death."

"My apologies." He was suave in an obviously expensive dark navy suit, a muted blue shirt bringing out flecks of matching blue in his grey eyes, tie tugged loose around his neck again and hands shoved in his pockets as he eyed her harried state. He looked vaguely amused, and Hermione pursed her lips together, ready to snap a retort to whatever superior remark he was clearly going to say. But instead Malfoy crouched down and began collecting up her scattered papers, flicking glances up at her as he did so. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh." She stood there staring at him stupidly, in her favourite black pencil skirt and a peach silk top, her hair wrestled back into a neat bun that she'd poked her wand through so she had her hands free. Thank Merlin she had to dress somewhat smartly at work, she thought absently as she watched Malfoy kneel at her sensibly shod feet. "Oh, yes. Well. I shouldn't read while I walk, I suppose," she said rather pathetically, and he chuckled as if she'd been witty.

"That might be safer, yes. There are so many hazards, otherwise. Walls, doorframes, unexpected steps. Me." He stood smoothly and handed Hermione the papers, smiling down at her, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Thank you," Hermione said quickly as she tucked the papers haphazardly back into the folder, returning his smile with her own. Malfoy stayed there in front of her, and she swallowed and looked away, feeling awkwardness saturate her. What was he doing? Why hadn't he gone on his way? What the _hell_? She hoped rather desperately that she didn't look as uncertain and awkward as she felt right now, which was _very_.

"Do you have a moment?" Malfoy asked, and she checked her watch and nodded dumbly; she had a good hour before her next hearing. "It was nice seeing you, the other day," Malfoy said then, with an unexpected hesitancy, and Hermione's gaze flew to him.

"...was it?" she asked without thinking, full of bewilderment, and then cursed her stupidity. The corner of Malfoy's mouth turned up, his eyes crinkling slightly.

"Yeah. It was."

"Oh! Oh, I didn't mean, I mean..." she floundered and then trailed off when it became clear there was nothing she could say to save the situation. Malfoy kindly didn't comment meanly on her inability to make any sense whatsoever, waving it off instead.

"I know what you mean." He had the grace to look uncomfortable, and Hermione wondered if he was remembering back through the years to how things used to be, so long ago. She wondered if he felt guilty for the harm he'd been party to, or if his apparent changes hadn't been deep enough to make him suffer regret for the past. He took a breath and his discomfort vanished, leaving him perfectly composed again. "But I was glad to meet Rose, and to see that you don't have a problem with her and Scorpius being friends. Unless of course, you do?" Hermione frowned faintly, shifting her grip on the case file she cradled.

"Not at all. Scorpius seems like a very nice boy." She bit her lip, and nearly apologetically ventured: "I would've thought that if any one had a problem with Rose and Scorpius being friends, it would have been _you_."

"I was only a child myself then, Granger," Malfoy said rather grimly. "Back when all that...happened. I no longer... I am no longer quite naïve or hateful enough to buy into blood hatred bigotry."

"Oh. Good," Hermione said, surprised by Malfoy's bluntness. "That's good." She looked down at the folder in her arms, unable to meet his eyes, scuffing her shoes on the floor like a child. "I just wanted to be sure. You know. Actually, I _shouldn't_ have asked; that was rude of me. I'm - sorry."

"It's fine, Granger. I quite understand," he said, and she looked up to see him smiling wryly. "I'm used to it. And most people don't inquire half as kindly as you did, so I appreciate that." Then Malfoy took a deep breath, and - thank Merlin - changed the topic, voice brighter and expression friendly. "Really though, I do appreciate Rose befriending Scorpius, more than you might know. First year was _hell_ for him, and I thought that we would have to home-school him until Rose took him under her wing."

" _Really_? Bullying? I would have expected better of Headmaster Flitwick."

"Flitwick did what he could, but Scorpius is _my_ son, and as I know all too well, people have a tendency to pass their hatreds down to their children," Malfoy began, and Hermione winced as she realised what he meant.

" _Oh_. Oh, the poor boy." Now that she had the right of it, Hermione could imagine all too well what kind of reception the son of Draco Malfoy would get - child of someone who had first harmed one side, and then betrayed the other, there would be no one who did not have reason to hate him.

"Happily he was placed in Ravenclaw with Rose, and none of the Ravenclaws seemed inclined to outright bully him - whether for fear of losing points or because they were somewhat more rational than the other children, who knows - but children in other houses were, well, unkind would be the polite way to put it. The more accurate way, however, would be to say that they were cruel little monsters who tormented him until he - until he..." Malfoy stopped and swallowed hard, eyes clouding and muscles in his jaw tensing. It took a moment before he could go on. "Suffice it to say, Scorpius' friendship with Rose has been all that made it possible for him to remain at Hogwarts. He's been doing so much better since they became friends."

"I feel terrible that I didn't know until just recently," Hermione said inanely, wondering dizzily at the fact that she and Malfoy were talking together like ordinary people.

"Scorpius said that Weas- your husband, hasn't exactly mellowed in his opinion of my family - according to your daughter, at least," Malfoy said cautiously, shoving his hands back in his pockets and rocking back on his heels as he watched Hermione's face for a reaction. Well he got one - she felt her face heat, and just knew she was flushing red with embarrassment right to the tips of her ears.

"Ron is like an elephant," she said with an effort at lightness, resisting the urge to press the cool backs of her hands against her flaming cheeks. "He has many very good qualities, but he also has an extremely long memory. He would never try to stop Rose from being friends with Scorpius though, regardless of the history between, erm, our families."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Yes, _well_. I hate to just dash, Malfoy, but - I better, um..." Hermione waved in the direction of her office, taking an uncertain step back. "...I have a hearing to prepare for."

"Oh, of course," Malfoy said swiftly, clearly a little startled by Hermione's abrupt attempt to disengage from the conversation. She wondered just how long he would have stood in the corridor and chatted for. Merlin, it was so strange.

"I'm glad we talked," she told him, offering a tentative smile as she wavered back another step.

"As am I. Good luck with the hearing, Granger." Malfoy inclined his head and smiled lopsidedly at the funny little half-wave she gave him as she clutched the case file to her chest, before he strode briskly off down the corridor, still smiling to himself.

* * *

"I need everything relating to the Usbourne case on my desk in five minutes, Mariska," Hermione said as she clacked briskly past in her low heels. She slid a coffee onto her secretary's desk with a smile as she passed, defusing her otherwise crisp manner. She always bought Mariska a coffee from the local Muggle coffee shop on her way into work, every Monday morning without fail. It had become something of a tradition over the years, as the much younger witch had a habit of coming in on Mondays hung-over and yawning, although that happened less often nowadays.

"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley. And thank you for the coffee!" Mariska called as her superior disappeared into her office.

"You're welcome," Hermione called over her shoulder, and then settled in at her desk with her own coffee, gaze thoughtful and faraway as she slid off her shoes and wiggled her slightly squished toes. In her work in magical law enforcement she generally acted as an Interrogator - the wizarding equivalent of a Muggle Crown Prosecutor - and the Usbourne case was her main focus at the moment. She was preparing to bring the case before the Wizengamot tomorrow, and she needed everything to be absolutely _perfect_.

Caritas Usbourne was a big fish; a pureblood of a minor family, he had made his success as a potions developer and manufacturer. He was the biggest British name on the market, and St Mungo's ordered many of their more complex potions from his company, Usbourne Potions, or UP. ' _UPwards and onwards with Usbourne Potions - always reaching for the future!'_ was their slogan. But for years, rumours of the mistreatment of Caritas Usbourne's employees had floated about - talk of horridly unsafe working practices and conditions, mostly. Then blurry secret photographs that seemed to show terrible accidents started to emerge, and then reports of potions that weren't yet approved for human testing being used on Squibs, and Muggle indigents, often with harmful results.

But no one had been willing to come forward and give evidence against him; too frightened by his intimidation and threats, and without a witness willing to testify, hearsay, photographs that could have been taken anywhere, and suspicion, were not enough. It had taken three years before the Auror squad assigned to investigate the issue had gathered enough evidence for Hermione to be willing to take it to the Wizengamot. The clincher had been an extremely brave ex-employee, who was willing to testify despite the multiple threats that had been anonymously levelled at him. He was currently under Auror protection in an undisclosed location, and would portkey in to the Ministry tomorrow, for the hearing.

Hermione herself had gotten several threats, but as a Ministry Prosecutor, that was life as usual, and it no longer bothered her; the children were safe at Hogwarts, the house was well-warded, and Hermione and Ron were quite capable of taking care of themselves. She would have a pair of Aurors assigned to her from now until the hearing, however, just in case last minute desperation pushed Usbourne to violence - he was facing life in Azkaban, which was still not a pleasant prospect, even with the Dementors gone.

A knock came at the door, and Hermione straightened in her seat and set her coffee down, pushing the shorter bits of hair coming out of the haphazard up do she'd fixed it into by shoving her wand through the thick twist of hair, back off her face. Growing out a fringe was so frustrating. "Enter!"

"The Usbourne file, Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said with a smile, holding the bundle of thick folders up for Hermione to see and hurrying across the office. "The full files -" Mariska said, laying them down on the desk " -and the review folder," she finished, handing Hermione the still dauntingly thick file. Hermione took it with her thanks, flipping the heavy thing open and heaving a sigh. Merlin, she had so much to review.

"You'll do _fine_ at the hearing tomorrow, Ms Granger-Weasley - no, _wonderfully_. You'll do wonderfully, I'm sure."

"Is it that obvious?" Hermione asked her secretary ruefully, and Mariska smiled apologetically and shrugged a slim shoulder.

"Only because I know you so well. I'm sure that no one else would notice."

"That's very kind of you, Mariska, but I wouldn't be surprised if it were obvious to everyone. I'm tied in knots over this damn case. The Auror unit has spent so much time collecting the evidence, and finding a witness to come forward...well, I don't want to be the one who loses the case and wastes everyone else's hard work by mucking up something simple, or forgetting a fact, or appearing -" Hermione stopped herself from spiralling into a fluster, shutting her eyes, taking a deep breath, and letting it out again, slowly. "See, look at me? I'm panicking," she said sheepishly, half-laughing at herself.

"You've never _once_ mucked up by doing something silly in the whole four years I've been here," Mariska said patiently, well used to her boss' occasional fits of nerves before a big case. "I am sure you will manage just fine tomorrow. You should go home early, and have a glass of wine and a hot bath, and relax. It'll do you the world of good. Then get an early night, and leave reviewing the case for tomorrow morning, when you're bright and focused."

"Oh Merlin, that _does_ sound nice." And Ron would be home tonight, and Hermione supposed a relaxing evening would be far better for their relationship than one where she sat in the study reviewing the case until late, leaving only the time and energy for them to engage in a quickie before they fell asleep. "I think I'll take your advice, Mariska. If I'm not out of here by four, you have my permission to boot me out, by any means necessary." Her secretary laughed and agreed to do so, and then hurried back out to her desk, closing Hermione's office door quietly behind her.

* * *

Hermione did precisely as Mariska said, and the bath was lovely when paired with a huge glass of elderflower wine and a squeeze of Hugo's jellybean scented bubble bath. She wallowed contentedly until she began to turn into a giant prune, and then wrapped herself up in a cosy dressing gown and gave the local Chinese takeaway a ring. Ron had a portkey sorted to come home again tonight, but Hermione really didn't care if he turned up or not, and certainly wasn't going to go to any trouble after last week's disaster. She'd officially given up trying, at this point. It was Ron's turn to make an effort.

Which he hadn't made yet; not a single call or text since he'd left early the last Monday morning, giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek goodbye. She hadn't said she'd still been mad at him, but it had been pretty obvious; she'd rolled over after sex and shrugged off his attempts to cuddle, giving him the cold shoulder. Ron hadn't been bothered enough to ask her what was wrong though, and she wouldn't be telling him 'til he asked. Hermione had the creeping suspicion though that he just wouldn't, and at times during the week she'd felt herself on the verge of tears, wondering how and when it had gotten to this.

Ron flooed in while Hermione was sitting curled up on the couch in the sitting room, still in her dressing gown with her szechuan chilli chicken on her lap, sipping from a can of fizzy drink as she flipped through the channels on the telly. She heard the fireplace in their small, formal lounge flare up, and then Ron mumbled something grumpily under his breath - he'd probably gotten all sooty.

"'Mione?" he called out a moment later, as Hermione settled on a rerun of the Vicar of Dibley, and tucked into her Chinese. "You home?"

She finished chewing her mouthful before she answered, and by then Ron was already popping his head into the sitting room, a smear of soot on his nose. He looked rather adorable, if she were honest.

"Obviously," she said, and smiled coolly, standoffish despite herself. "I wasn't really expecting you home."

"I can tell," Ron muttered under his breath as he eyed her, and Hermione bit her tongue and let the comment slide. First he didn't even notice her glamming up, and then he was complaining that she hadn't bothered with all that? Merlin, why couldn't he just make up his mind? But it wouldn't help anything if she were rude and argumentative, so instead Hermione swallowed down her anger and breathed deeply.

"How was your week?" She tried to infuse her voice with genuine interest, and Ron relaxed visibly at the change in her tone, shrugging and flopping down in the armchair near the couch.

"Okay. Same as usual, really. Practice, working on tactics and teamwork, and seeing a few of the sights around the wizarding parts of Turkey, when we get a chance."

"Is it pretty?" When the children had been little and Hermione hadn't been working, she had occasionally left them at the Burrow for a few days at a time while she'd travelled to wherever Ron was for a visit. They would sightsee, and take photos, and spend time just the two of them in beautiful places before she went back home. But they hadn't done that in years. After she went back to work, Ron stopped asking, despite the fact that she had _told_ him she'd be able to organise time off for a holiday. He resented that she was better paid than him; everyone knew it.

"I guess," Ron shrugged, toeing off his trainers and stretching out in the armchair with a yawn. "You prob'ly would've loved all the historic stuff, but I didn't find it that interesting. Just old buildings and the like. Hey, is there any food for me?"

"Sorry...but I can order in some more Chinese for you?"

"Nah, I'm good with eggs and toast or something," Ron said dismissively, and it took Hermione a long moment before she realised he expected her to cook it for him. She gritted her teeth and tossed her carton of szechuan chilli chicken on the coffee table.

"Eggs and toast?" she asked very, very sweetly as she stood. "And how would you like those eggs, Ronald?" Somehow he didn't pick up on her brittle sarcasm.

"Fried, thanks, 'Mione love." Hermione felt a muscle in her temple jump, and chewed the inside of her cheek furiously as she stalked through to the kitchen, Ron trailing in her wake. She made him eggs as he sat at the breakfast bar and rambled on about what he'd been doing in Turkey, and then told him all the children's news while he ate. Not once did Ron ask about _her_ week. He didn't remember that she had the Usbourne case coming up before the Wizengamot tomorrow - in fact, he didn't ask how work was going at all. It hurt, that he could be so thoughtless, when he'd said that they were supposed to be trying and she _had_.

"I've been busy at work, " she started, as Ron finished polishing off his meal. "I've got the -"

"You're _always_ busy," he said through a mouthful of egg and toast, swallowing it and going on, getting angrier as he went. "Always locked away in your study at nights, reviewing cases instead of coming to bed. Missing dinners at the Burrow because you're too tired from work. Away at work during the day when I'm at home and we could be spending time together. Sending Hugo off to Honeywell Infants when you got your first damned job in the Ministry. I'm sick of hearing about it, when all it is to me is the thing that takes you away from us!"

Hermione flinched beneath the sudden onslaught of complaints and stared at him wordlessly, not knowing what to say. He was technically right in more ways than she was comfortable with, but he was also so _wrong_. Hermione _needed_ her work to give her fulfilment and intellectual stimulation - she would be miserable without it, and if she was miserable she wouldn't be any use to Ron or the children. It wasn't fair to expect her to sacrifice something that she loved so much - something that paid brilliantly - just because Ron would prefer it that way, and the sudden upwelling of his resentment made her feel sick.

"I have the Usbourne case tomorrow," she said quietly, clearing his plate away. Ron was silent. She went on as she scrubbed his dishes by hand:

"The biggest case of my _career_. If I manage to convince the Wizengamot to convict, it could be the clincher to assuring me the head of department position when Higgins retires next year. And I want that position, Ron, _so badly._ Of course, even if you'd remembered I have the hearing - and I know you didn't - you probably wouldn't have wanted to hear about it, would you?" She was brittle and cuttingly-sharp, and Ron just sat there eyeing her tiredly; as if she'd beaten him down, as if he'd just stopped caring enough _to_ care. For a moment she thought he was going to argue the point - take back his complaints and say he did and he was sorry he'd forgot, but he didn't.

"No," he said at last on a sigh, shoulders hunched and eyes on his hands, folded together on the kitchen bench. He looked broken-down and worn, shaggy head of hair strewn through with white, lines around his down-turned mouth. Hermione's heart wrenched and ached as though it were going to burst, and for a moment she wanted to grab Ron and apologise frantically for everything she'd said, to kiss him until things were how they used to be again. Only they couldn't go back, and she thought he knew that too. Or maybe he just knew that was how _she_ felt, because there was defeat in his voice as he spoke.

"No, I suppose I wouldn't have, Hermione."

Hermione stood motionless at the kitchen sink in her fuzzy robe, staring out the window at the streetlight, feeling her world begin to crack and splinter as she clutched Ron's dinner plate in her hands.

"I'm going to bed," Ron said, breaking the spell at last, and Hermione clattered Ron's dinner plate to the draining board, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes. "You should get an early night too, what with the hearing and all," he added stilted and apologetic as he stood, and Hermione nodded automatically, feeling heartsick as she watched him smile unsteadily and then retreat with shoulders bowed, like a weight was on him. When she went upstairs sometime later, their bed was empty, and she found him asleep in Hugo's room, under the covers snoring gently. Hermione watched him a moment, a part of her wanting to wake him and tell him to come to bed, but in the end, she slipped back to their room alone.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's a slow burn I know...Sorry guys! I hope you enjoyed Draco's scene in this chapter though :) Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you so much for all your feedback! **NaNo** starts for me in approximately two hours, so I'll be counting my words from then on - I hope to get _Fascination_ completed during it. Good luck to any of you who are participating! I also wrote out a scene that popped into my head last night...the beginning of a sequel to _Crumple_ , so that _will_ be coming, but not until _HDHA_ is done! I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **5.**

Hermione strode along the corridors of the Ministry to her office bright and early the next morning, coffee in one hand, mind filled to overflowing with the details of the Usbourne case. She had a lot of reviewing to do before the hearing. At least she was feeling positive, despite the row with Ron last night. He'd been gone when she woke up, leaving a note on the fridge that read simply: _I'm sorry, 'Mione. Good luck today. Ron._ Hermione admitted feeling an odd relief at the fact that he hadn't tried to explain or justify his words, or take them back all together; she didn't want lies between them anymore, not even kind lies. She wanted _truth._

And when he'd signed the note, he hadn't said _I love you_ _,_ or _I'll miss you_ _,_ or even signed it with a kiss. Just, Ron. And the relief that had given Hermione - the upsetting rightness of it - was something she would mull over later, after the hearing. Right now she was prepped, caffeinated, dressed in a very nice trouser suit with killer heels, and her hair was behaving beautifully; right now, she felt bloody brilliant. She smiled to herself as she turned the corner to the department entrance, sipping at her coffee.

"Morning, Granger."

"Merlin's _pants!_ " Hermione nearly spilt her coffee all over herself as she jumped out of her skin, spinning around to see Draco Malfoy standing right behind her, staring at her with his hands in his pockets and a faint smirk on his face that blossomed and grew.

"Sorry," he said, only he clearly wasn't at all; failing to stifle the chuckles that fizzed out of him, shaping his face with a lopsided grin that he tried to hide by ducking his head. But she could still see it; the twitch of his lips curling up, his shoulders shaking.

"You _arse_ ," she said, thwapping at his arm with her handbag without thinking, and he met her eyes, rubbing at his cheek with the heel of his palm and biting his lip as he tried to bottle his amusement enough to talk. It took a moment, then:

" _Merlin's pants?_ " he asked in amused disbelief. "What are you, twelve?"

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," she half-laughed, and then looked at him and remembered who they both were and stopped in surprise. He was looking as suave as always, except that he had the plum-coloured formal robes of the Wizengamot on, hanging open over his suit. He saw her notice, and smiled self-consciously, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in the heavy fabric. He'd taken the position when he'd finally emerged back into wizarding society in his thirties - no one had been very happy about it, but as he'd been fully pardoned of his actions during the War, they couldn't stop him. He was entitled by virtue of his blood.

"Good luck at the hearing today, Granger," he offered knowingly, grey eyes soft and warm like wood smoke as he scruffed his fingers through his short platinum hair. "I hear you're interrogating Caritas Usbourne."

"You're going to be at the hearing?"

"Oh, no. Your case isn't _quite_ in need of a full convening of the Wizengamot. I'm due for a hearing in courtroom seven, actually. Something along the lines of man bites dog; nothing major. They keep me away from the important cases anyway - I'm not to be trusted, you know." He grinned, tone light and self-deprecating.

"So how do you know about Usbourne then?" Hermione asked, folding her arms across her chest and eyeing him steadily. He shrugged.

"I keep an eye on things. An ear to the ground. It's always good to know what's going on, and your career has been particularly...eye-catching. Your style as Interrogator is...unusual." He'd been following her career? Hermione frowned, feeling suddenly under the microscope, like a bug Malfoy was examining. Only he wasn't looking at her like she was a bug. If she didn't know better, she'd nearly think his interest wasn't entirely professional. "You're _fascinating_ , Granger."

"I've been influenced greatly by the Muggle system of law. To be honest, Malfoy, I'd love to see the Wizengamot abolished and a less easily corruptible legal system brought in, but I doubt that will ever happen," she said smoothly. "Is that why I'm so interesting, is it?"

"Partly...yes," Malfoy allowed, eyes still steady on her, and she tugged at her blazer, feeling acutely conscious all of a sudden that she'd bought it when she'd been a little less generous around the middle, and it didn't quite fit as well as it had used to. She'd never cared before - never even thought about it - but now she found she did, damn him.

"And why else, then?" she demanded very casually. "What else is just so fascinating about _me?_ "

"Usbourne doesn't like his words being repeated back to him," Malfoy said instead. "It irritates him, and that makes him vulnerable to slip ups. He uses smiles and politeness to get under people's skin and make them angry; don't let him succeed or you'll look like a fool. And while it's very well-hidden if one is unaware of it, if you dig you'll find evidence that he has a granddaughter who is sick with a magical malady that as yet has no cure."

"...I - I know how to do my job, Malfoy," Hermione stammered weakly, staring at him and feeling rather as though she'd been smacked in the face with a bucket of water. Usbourne had a sick grandchild? The motivator behind the beginning of his unsafe practices, perhaps? If true, this was invaluable to the trial. How had none of the investigations uncovered this, and how had Malfoy known? And why was he telling her? "I - how did you know?" Malfoy waited until a harried looking witch had rushed past them before he went on, quietly.

"He's an old family friend. I know several secrets that make him...exposed. I make a point of knowing these things. One never knows when they'll come in useful."

"Still in the habit of deceit and betrayal then, I see." Hermione jabbed before she could jerk her stupid mouth to a halt, and Malfoy arched an eyebrow at her. Merlin, he'd given her an excellent lead and some very good advice - if he wasn't playing her - and in return she'd insulted him. Oh, _well done,_ Hermione.

"Well, it is in the name, isn't it? Bad faith," was all Malfoy said, mildly, as if what she'd said hadn't bothered him in the slightest. But she could see the tightness around his eyes, the way their colour seemed to have darkened; for all that he kept his features well-composed, his eyes were a tell.

"Sorry. That was rude of me," Hermione apologised. "I'm...not quite myself, today. Stress, and - although I realise that doesn't excuse my rudeness."

"No. It's fine. I do - very rarely - dabble in what you might call...treachery, when I think it's needed," he admitted smoothly, eyes clouded. "But never toward anyone who I consider a friend."

"I thought Usbourne..."

" _Family_ friend. My father's friend, to be precise, and I don't generally feel kindly toward the company my father keeps." Malfoy smiled thinly. "I have very few friends, myself."

"And why are you telling me?" she asked him, and sipped at her coffee, eyeing him over the rim of her cup. He huffed a chuckle, moving closer to her as a small group of Ministry staff hurried by, chatting like jaybirds.

"I would have thought it was obvious I wasn't exactly popular, Granger. Hardly a secret to be told," Malfoy answered her with what seemed like a note of teasing, lips twitching up at the corners, and Hermione grinned again, the tension between them suddenly evaporating.

"About _Usbourne_ ," she clarified, and Malfoy smirked.

"Because I care about truth and justice, of course. No? Not buying it?" She shook her head, amused and intrigued, and his smirk grew. "All right then. How about because I wanted Usbourne out of the way?"

"No," she said and shook her head, swirling her coffee around in her cup as she leant back on one foot and looked him up and down in blatant assessment, feeling oddly...invigorated, by their back and forth. "Even you wouldn't use me to do that."

"Wouldn't I? Well, maybe I told you because I think you're _fascinating_ , Granger. And maybe I think you deserve the Head of Department position opening up when Higgins retires that I know you must be wanting, and so I'm...being helpful." Hermione leant back against the corridor wall and nibbled at her lower lip, holding back a smile.

"Well, thank you, Malfoy, but I think I can manage to secure a good shot at the position without assistance. And really that answer just _creates_ more questions than it solves," she said, and Malfoy spread out his hands palm up, as if to say _what can you do?_

"You'd better go get some people onto hunting out evidence of Usbourne's granddaughter, Granger. Only four hours before the hearing. Good luck."

"I don't need luck," Hermione said to Malfoy with a sharp smile, feeling ridiculously energised and good as she pushed off from the wall and walked away without another word, aware of his gaze on her until she turned the corner.

* * *

She won the case.

Hermione's heart thrilled and pounded as she went over the events of the hearing again during the walk back to her office, feeling high on adrenaline and excitement. She had taken Caritas Usbourne to _pieces_ during the hearing, using her usual tactics as Interrogator to excellent effect alongside Malfoy's few tips, and invaluable information. She grinned ecstatically at Mariska as she stopped in front of the secretary's desk, beside her office door.  
"We _won!_ The Wizengamot only took a few minutes to deliberate - guilty! I don't know what the sentence will be yet, they're still deliberating on that, but I'm so happy!"

"I know," Mariska said with a smug smile. "I was already informed. Congratulations, by the way."

"By _who?_ The hearing's only just ended and I've come straight here - you can't tell me the news has already spread?"

"It's only just finished? But Mister Malfoy left this for you twenty minutes ago," Mariska said, brow furrowing with confusion as she reached down behind the desk and lifted something up. "I thought the trial must have already ended, for him to have known."

It was a single full-blown orange rose, thorns still upon the bare stem, which had a thin silvery ribbon tied around it, attaching a small rectangle of card. Hermione reached out slowly and took it from Mariska with a curious frown. She turned the expensive creamy card over, and saw scrawled in bold script, simply: _Congratulations, Granger._ An orange rose? And congratulations before the hearing had even ended, as though Malfoy were just that confident in Hermione's abilities to see Usbourne convicted. Well, he'd been right to be so confident, hadn't he?

"I hope Mr Weasley doesn't get wind of this, or you'll have a duel on your hands," Mariska said cheekily, with a giggle. "He'd be _furious_."

"Oh Mariska, don't be silly - it's just a congratulations. Ron isn't _that_ possessive, thank Merlin," Hermione managed to get out, hopefully sounding normal - Mariska was lovely and good-hearted, but she had a tendency to gossip, and Hermione didn't need her marriage issues all over the Ministry yet. Mariska grinned and tapped a perfectly manicured nail on one of the rose petals, as Hermione turned the thing over in her hands, careful of the thorns.

"Ah, but it's an orange rose, and I looked that up."

"Looked it up?"

"Oh _honestly_ , Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said, as if laughing at Hermione's ignorance. "Everyone who's anyone has been into flower language for months now - it's _everywhere_. Very retro, very stylish. It's been completely revived - see?" She pulled out an old copy of Witch Weekly from the stacks beneath her desk, flipping through it, to lay it open on the desk to an index of flowers and their meanings. "As soon as I saw it was a single orange rose and not just a plain old store bought bouquet, I looked up what it could mean." The younger woman looked up at Hermione with barely stifled excitement, clearly bursting to educate Hermione on what it meant.

"I'm sure Mister Malfoy doesn't pay attention to - to _flower language_ trends. That's a - a young person thing, not…" And then Mariska tapped the magazine page intently with her long fingernail, and Hermione's eyes zoomed in on where her secretary was indicating. _A single orange rose_ , it began, and then Hermione's eyes widened and she pressed her fingers over her mouth, suppressing the urge to gasp. _Fascination_.

"See," said Mariska smugly, and Hermione gulped as her stomach lurched, because what on earth was Malfoy trying to do? Flirt? Make her life difficult? Congratulate her without any knowledge of what the rose meant? No, that would be too large a coincidence; Mariska was right that he would have just sent her a bouquet. But it couldn't be flirtatious - no, it had to be purely friendly - a way to further the civilities they'd made toward each other since Hermione had discovered their children were friends. He was being nice, and teasing her about how he'd said she was fascinating, Hermione decided. That was clearly the only reasonable option, and she would be silly to think otherwise.

"It's just - he was telling me earlier how fascinating he found me in regards to the way I work, Mariska. He was...admiring me professionally, that's all. Don't go getting silly romantic ideas in your head. He and I are both married, I'm not interested in him in the slightest" - was that a _lie?_ She wasn't sure - "and he _certainly_ couldn't have any interest in me whatsoever."

"But he does," said Mariska innocently. "He's _always_ asking after you. He tries to make it subtle by asking different secretaries in the department, but we all, erm, talk - well, all right, we all gossip together, and the past few years or so, he's been asking more and more about what you're doing, and how you are. Not often, but often enough that…well, I can't tell you who because I don't want to get them in trouble, but some of the girls were taking bets on when you and Mister Malfoy" - Mariska dropped her voice to a whisper - "would have an affair."

"You're _kidding_ me."

"Not at all. So while I'm quite sure you have no interest in him, Ms Granger-Weasley -" Mariska said with a very small, sly smile that made Hermione both want to laugh, and shake the girl "- Mister Malfoy is very clearly interested in you."

But despite Mariska's certainties, Hermione laughed her off, dismissing her gossipy fancies as absolutely ridiculous, and fled into her office with the rose still in hand, shutting the door very firmly behind her. There was no way in hell that Draco Malfoy would ever be interested in her.

* * *

"Hullo?"

"Hullo, Ron." Hermione paused and took a breath, steeling herself. Her hand was clammy on her mobile; she'd broken out in a sweat all over, and her stomach was churning. "Look, we, erm, need to talk. Do you have a minute?"

"Y-yeah. Hang on. I'll just head back to my room." A clatter and muted words, a woman's flirtatious voice - _oh, must you go? So soon?_ \- and Ron's unintelligible reply. It was obviously innocent, Hermione told herself as shock balled into a tight fist in her chest. There were loads of rabid fans who hung out around the team, always, and Hermione had no reason to think Ron had ever been unfaithful. He would never. Ron might be thoughtless and unreliable, but he wasn't a liar. Hermione sat at the breakfast bar, mobile in hand, listening as Ron obviously left the room he'd been in and shut the door behind him.

"You there?"

"Yeah."

"Post-match drink in Jono's suite," Ron explained, as if everything were normal because it still was for him, and Hermione sank her head into her hand, phone pressed too hard to her ear, and thought herself a monster. She could hear he was walking by the sound of his breathing, and a moment later the click of a door closing came down the line.

"It was a right good time. Drinks and loads of people, all wanting to hear about the War." Of course; Ron was always telling stories about the War, and Hermione smiled sadly at the image that flashed in her head. An old war hero, clinging to the tales of what he thought had been his life's peak, in a twisted kind of way. It wasn't healthy, to glorify the War like that, in Hermione's opinion. But there was no point in saying anything.

"How'd the match go?" So polite. So _ordinary_.

"All right. We won, but not by much. Got to do a lot better if we want a shot at the Cup." The sound of a bottle being cracked open, and a pause as Ron took a long swig of whatever he was drinking. He sounded a little more cautious as he went on: "So, what did you want to talk about, then?" He didn't bother asking her about the Usbourne case, if he'd even remembered it - she'd won, and after several hours had passed, word had come from the Wizengamot. They'd given Usbourne sixty years, a lighter sentence than Hermione had expected, but considering his age, was close enough to life that it may as well have been.

"I - think..." it was best to just say it, she told herself. To rip the plaster off quickly and cleanly, rather than to let fear and uncertainty turn it into a slow, torturous process with the same end result. The words rushed out of her in a babble. "I think we should take a break. Just some - some time apart. Some space." He laughed, short and bitter, and Hermione shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, dropping her head forward and gritting her teeth.

"Some time apart? Hermione, we've spent the past two bloody weeks apart - the problem is that we don't spend enough time _together!_ " He was nearly shouting now; Ron never had been good at keeping his cool - fiery, like his hair.

"Well these days, whenever we spend time together we just fight," Hermione hissed in frustration. "It's not helping. I need time to think. To..."

"Decide whether or not you want to destroy our family?"

"That's not fair. That is not _fair_ ," Hermione snapped, standing abruptly and turning away from the breakfast bar, fingertips digging into the edge. "That's not what I mean - not what I want. And besides, if we were - to - to split up, it wouldn't be destroying our family. And it wouldn't be _me_ doing it. Because our relationship issues are ours, and if we don't work then _that's not my fault_. You don't get to put our failures on me alone."

"Well, that was pretty fucking conclusive wasn't it? From how you're talking, it sounds like you've already made your decision." He was angry and nasty, lashing out in his hurt and Hermione told herself she should able to rise above his understandable anger at having this dropped on him over the phone. She tried, very hard, leaning back against the wall and staring at a magical photograph of the four of them on the fridge, smiling and waving at the camera.

"I haven't, Ron. Honestly I haven't. But I can't take this...this constant fighting anymore. It's just getting worse. I thought during the summer hols things were getting better, but now that the children are off at Hogwarts...we don't text, we don't call, when we do talk we just end up rowing... I just _can't_ , right now." She stayed calm but quietly pleading, begging Ron to understand. She wasn't trying to hurt him. "I know it's dreadful timing with my birthday coming up in nearly three weeks, and I hate to ask you to cancel plans, but right now the last thing I want is a big party."

There was silence down the phone line.

"Your...birthday..." Ron said, slowly. "...Your..."

There was a long, taut silence, as his words and tone sank in.

"You forgot. You forgot. Ronald fucking Weasley, you -" Hermione began to snarl, suffused with hurt and fury - and then made herself stop in her tracks. "No. No, never mind. It's ended up working out for the best anyway, hasn't it?" she went on dully. He'd forgotten her 40th birthday completely. Her fortieth, and it had just slipped his mind.

"...Oh bloody fucking Merlin," Ron sighed down the phone, sounding like he was kicking himself, all apology and desperate hope for forgiveness. "'Mione..." But his pleading didn't move her. She was tired of this - so damned tired, and this felt like the final straw.

"I think once you're back from Turkey, you should go stay at the Burrow for a while," Hermione got out, her throat tight and heart pounding hard against her ribs, as she slid her back down the wall, bum on the floor and knees to her chest. "I want a break. I need space. Time." There was a long pause.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, a break." Ron sounded wearily accepting, when he finally broke the silence. "I s'pose you're right - might be better, right now."

"Ron -"

"How long?" he interrupted, and her eyes drifted to the calendar, mind ticking over.

"Until December 10th. That gives us time to - to think, and also time to talk and figure out whatever - whatever direction we decide to go in" - she was crying now, a silent flood of tears - "Before the children come back for Christmas. So if we decide to - then we can tell them, and show them at Christmas that us being...apart won't make things terrible, and if we decide to work on our relationship then Christmas can be like - like a new start."

"Okay." He said nothing more than that - just one word - and she felt empty, suddenly. _Afraid_. Afraid of losing what was left of their relationship, afraid of being alone, afraid of hurting the children, of making a mistake that she wouldn't be able to come back from.

"I do love you, Ron. And no matter what, I always will," she said through her tears, small and pathetic, nose running and making her sniff and snuffle.

"I know, Hermione. I - I love you too, _really_. But...well, things haven't been good for a while, have they?"

"No. No, they haven't." She took a deep, shaking breath through her unceasing tears. "Goodbye, Ron."

It felt like an end. And lying in bed sleepless that night, staring up at the ceiling, it felt like freedom too. And freedom was so big, so unknown, so _frightening_ _,_ that Hermione felt like a child again. Where did she go from here? _To sleep_ , she thought wryly, or she'd be a wreck in the morning - she wasn't young enough to stay up all night and suffer no ill effects anymore, and she had work tomorrow. But still she lay awake, feeling the enormity of her decisions swell inside her chest, like they were splitting her open.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

 _Ms Granger-Weasley,_

 _I regret to inform you that your daughter, Rose Weasley, was involved in an altercation today, together with Scorpius Malfoy. She hexed two students, and struck another enough hard enough to break his nose. This is the third such incident this term alone that Rose and Scorpius have been involved in, and as such we request your presence as soon as possible to discuss the issue. Please Owl immediately to let me know whether a 6 o'clock meeting today is possible, as I would prefer to settle this matter with all due haste._

 _Professor Filius Flitwick_

 _Headmaster, Hogwarts_

* * *

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Hermione apologised, slightly out breath from hurrying up the staircase to the Headmaster's office. "I was held up at the Ministry." She noted her daughter, Scorpius, and his parents, all seated in front of Flitwick's desk, the two children turning their heads toward her as she spoke, Astoria looking up - beautiful and as blonde as her husband and son. Malfoy stood as Hermione crossed the room, smiling at her as though they had a secret, and holding out his hand.

"Hardly late, Granger. It's two past six, and we've only just arrived ourselves." She took his outstretched hand and he kissed the back of hers lightly like he had at the train station, as though she were a pureblood witch. "Congratulations on your victory today."

"Thank you, Malfoy." It was shocking, how Malfoy managed to take control of an entire room, how he filled it with his dry, composed tones. Tall and still lean, in his perfectly tailored suits, and exuding an easy, natural confidence, he made himself a focal point within the room - unable to be ignored, for better or for worse. He was overwhelming, Hermione thought suddenly, as he let her fingers slide slowly out of his. Like a suave, charming onslaught.

"This is my wife, Astoria, Granger. Tori, _darling_ ," Malfoy said, his voice dripping with faux affection as he spoke to his wife: "This is Hermione Granger-Weasley."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Astoria said in a well-bred, supremely bored voice, as though she were a caricature of the stereotypical pureblood witch brought to life. Beautiful and cold, with warm honey-blonde hair and leaf-green eyes that tilted at the ends and gave her the appearance of a particularly haughty feline, plump lips shaping into a brief, polite smile. Hermione smiled in return as she moved toward the one free seat, by Rose, trying to make hers warmer and more genuine than Astoria's.

"A pleasure to meet you, Astoria. And Professor Flitwick, it's lovely to see you again - although perhaps not under these circumstances." Hermione shot a small, stern look at her daughter, who stared steadily back at her mother, firm chin up, and blue eyes bright and a little teary. Not the eyes of a child who thought she'd done something wrong. Hermione reached out and squeezed Rose's hand gently on impulse.

"And you, Hermione. It's been much too long," Flitwick said fondly in his rather high-pitched voice, and then with bright briskness: "But now then, as much as I could happily sit and reminisce, we had best attend to the matter at hand." He shuffled through various parchments on the expansive desk before him and cleared his throat. "Today, just after lunch, there was an incident in the third floor corridor. Rose and Scorpius were involved in an altercation with three other students, all of whom are currently in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's care."

"Oh Merlin..." Hermione said involuntarily, casting a disappointed glance at Rose.

"Nothing major - they should be perfectly well by tomorrow, Ms Granger-Weasley, but all are covered in rather nasty boils, and one is also recovering from a broken nose."

"Who are they, if I may ask?" Malfoy spoke up coolly, lips smiling but eyes not. Professor Flitwick nodded hastily, and checked the parchments in front of him, squinting down at the pages.

"Er, let's see. Lucy Ludgrave of Slytherin House, and Thomas Stokes and Emma-Louise Tuttle, both of Gryffindor - all third years." Hermione was mildly ashamed to admit that she was surprised that two of the other children were Gryffindors. She clearly held a favourable bias toward them, but she had to remember that being a Gryffindor did not necessarily make one a good person.

"And what will be done with them, once they are discharged from the hospital wing?" Malfoy went on briskly, yanking the answers out of Professor Flitwick with a swift, cool precision.

"I have a meeting scheduled with their parents for tomorrow morning. They will be dealt with, Mr Malfoy, I can assure you."

"What happened?" Hermione interrupted, eager to get to the root of the issue and find out just how cross she should be with her daughter. Flitwick pulled a roll of parchment out of the pile with stubby, well-manicured fingers and frowned down at it.

"According to Rose and Scorpius, the three other students accosted them in the corridor on the way to class. They began harassing Scorpius, and -"

"Harassing how?" Malfoy broke in, face darkening, Astoria sitting silent and disinterested beside him, as though being here for her son were an unwelcome imposition. Hermione already didn't like the witch.

"Er..."

"The cowards came up behind us, and pushed Scorp and called him a faggot, and asked if he was sucking Death Eater -" Rose began, white faced and furious, her voice shaking and hitching and her freckles standing out stark against her skin.

"Rose!" Hermione interrupted before she could finish, as she caught sight of the shrinking shame that coloured Scorpius' cheeks, and the distaste twisting Astoria's features. She glanced at Malfoy's face, and could read nothing; he was blank and still, like stone, expressionless and emotionless. She decided silently that _that_ degree of control was a tell in itself, and felt sympathy for him. She didn't know how she would feel in his situation - cruelty brought upon her children not only for who they were, but for what _she_ had done. It must be awful for him.

"Well they did!" Rose argued, and Hermione felt her heart wrench for her eldest, all fired up with righteous fury at the behaviour of the other students, and spilling over with empathy for her friend. But it was important, Hermione knew from hard-learned experience, not to let one's desire to see justice done compound the harm inflicted upon the victim.

"I know, darling, but I think perhaps it's up to Scorpius as to whether he wants the details of the insults shared." Rose looked aghast and apologetic, and mumbled a sincere sorry to Scorpius that he accepted with a smile and a squeeze of Rose's hand, a murmured: _'It's alright, Rose.'_

"Yes, well," Professor Flitwick tried to continue, looking most uncomfortable. "Rose and Scorpius both attested that insults were directed at Scorpius after he was pushed by Thomas Stokes. Scorpius and Rose say they ignored the insults and tried to walk away, and Lucy Ludgrave tripped Scorpius. That was when Rose admits she hexed Lucy. Thomas apparently tried to hex Rose, who managed to hex him first, at the same time as Scorpius." Professor Flitwick frowned, blunt fingers tracing along the scrawled words. "And then Emma-Louise Tuttle attempted to hex Rose, missed and struck Lucy, and then before she could attempt to hex Rose or Scorpius again, Rose admits she struck Emma-Louise in the face with a closed fist, knocking Emma-Louise down and breaking her nose." Hermione tried to hide a proud smile behind a cough, covering her mouth with her hand.

"I shan't apologise, mum," Rose said firmly. "People are always teasing Scorpius, and it's not _fair_. The teachers can't stop them before they do it, only take away House points, and we can't stop them without getting in trouble. It's _unjust_."

"Rose," Hermione said quellingly. Now was not the time, even if she _did_ agree with Rose wholeheartedly. "What _will_ be done about the teasing, Professor Flitwick?"

"There is, unfortunately, little that we are capable of doing, Ms Granger-Weasley."

"Wrong answer," Malfoy said coldly, eyes icy and flat, body wound taut with tension despite his attempt to look casually relaxed on the chair.

"We will be giving young Scorpius a token that he may activate whenever he is harassed, calling a member of staff to attend the incident, ensuring none of the offenders get away with bullying him," Professor Flitwick hurried, and Malfoy accepted that answer with a minute nod. "And we will be punishing Lucy, Thomas, and Emma-Louise severely. They will be suspended for a week, banned from extra-curricular activities for the rest of the term, and required to attend detention with Mister Filch three evenings a week for the next three weeks. It will be made clear that any further harassment of Scorpius will result in the same banning from extra-curricular activities - including visits to Hogsmeade where applicable - and detention with Mister Filch."

"That sounds...acceptable, Professor Flitwick," Malfoy said slowly after a moment's silence. "If it works to dissuade the offenders, that is." Professor Flitwick looked greatly relieved at that, and some of the accumulated tension in the office drained out of the air. The remainder of the meeting was spent deciding upon a suitable punishment for Rose and Scorpius - Malfoy thought no punishment should be given to either of them, Hermione was in favour of an extremely mild punishment for Rose even if she _did_ agree with Rose's actions, and Professor Flitwick insisted that they _both_ needed to be disciplined for disobeying school rules for the third time this term.

In the end, they were both given two nights detention with Hagrid - something that Hermione, Professor Flitwick, and the children, knew very well was a punishment in name only. Scorpius' parents both seemed rather horrified at the thought, however. And then it was time for the children to go down to dinner, and Professor Flitwick bade them all goodbye. At the gargoyle entrance, down in the corridor, Rose hugged Hermione tightly, and promised she would write to her mother that evening to give her all the details of what had happened, and Hermione promised she would owl back as soon as she got the letter. Meanwhile, Scorpius exchanged a stiff hug with his mother, before Draco - it seemed strange and a little confusing to keep thinking of him as _Malfoy_ when two other Malfoys were present - hugged his son close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

The children rushed off to dinner then, walking in stride with their heads close together, exchanging surreptitious conversation, and Hermione watched them go with a smile. Their obvious bond reminded her of the familial closeness between her, Harry, and Ron at the same age. And then she heard hissed, angry tones from Astoria and Draco who lingered at the other side of the gargoyle, and arched an eyebrow. Rather than leave, Hermione turned away, hidden slightly by a tapestry, and began to dig through her handbag as though searching for something, feeling a little guilty - but evidently not guilty enough to refrain from eavesdropping.

"- don't know why you dragged me away from a perfectly lovely holiday in Spain to come here. Surely you could have handled this!"

"You're his _mother_ , Tori. You're supposed to care. It's not supposed to be an imposition!" Draco said in a quiet, icily furious voice. Hermione found an ancient wrapped courtesy peppermint in her bag, and idly unwrapped it. "He needs you, Tori! He needs us, his father _and_ his mother, to support him. To show him that we don't care if he's gay."

"Well there's the problem," said Astoria, faux bright and shot beneath with a bitter anger, her tone harsh enough to cut glass. "I _do_ care. I care a great deal that the only child I ever managed to birth alive is a _dud_. Unable - no, _unwilling_ to carry on the bloodline. Unwilling to marry into a good family and create an alliance, to strengthen our position in the wizarding world, to ensure that the Greengrass and Malfoy lines continue. I fucking well care, Draco." Hermione flinched, feeling cold and shocked as the venom spilt from Astoria's mouth, bound up in grief and shame that Hermione couldn't hope to decipher from the little she knew. Only she thought _birthed alive_ and her heart wrenched and ached with sympathy for Astoria, even if the woman was apparently a hateful bigot who had all but disowned her son.

"You care about all the wrong things, Astoria. You always have. Money, power, _status_. Didn't you learn from how things went with Voldemort that _that doesn't amount to shit?_ " Draco asked, his voice taut as violin strings, strained and desperate in the Hogwarts' corridor, empty but for the three of them. Hermione shuffled a bit further away, moving right back behind the cover of the tapestry she'd been using for shelter. Not just playing at being inconspicuous, but hiding now. "He loves you, Tori. And you loved him, until... Why can't you accept it? Why can't you accept _him?_ " He was _begging_ her. Malfoy was begging, raw and pleading, and Hermione scrunched the peppermint wrapper up in one hand and pictured how he must look. She leant forward, wanting to see as he and Astoria continued their back and forth, feeling like a peeping Tom.

Draco stood close to his wife, and his face was naked, vulnerable. Peeled back and flayed raw, grey eyes dark and begging, hand pushing through his short hair and leaving it in wild spikes, shifting and nearly turning away on the spot as though he wanted to pace. To get away. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and Hermione added: to grab Astoria and shake her. To _make_ her accept their son. His sleeves were folded unevenly up to just below his elbows, and Hermione could see the faded remnants of the Dark Mark on the pale flesh of his inner forearm. She could see the tendons draw taut in his neck, and the vein twist and jump at his temple as he kept his voice low and steady when it seemed like he wanted to shout, to roar at Astoria in sheer fury.

"Go back to Spain then, you bitch. And fucking well stay there."

"That was my intention, Draco," Astoria said with a tired calm - Hermione felt for a brief moment as though she saw _herself_ in Astoria then, in the way she dismissed her husband as though she simply no longer had the energy to care. The calm of the detached, and Hermione felt like she was looking in a mirror. And then Astoria turned and walked away, leaving Draco standing in the corridor, to bury his face in his hands for a moment and huff a pained, exhausted groan. When Draco looked up again, from the glimpse Hermione saw of his face, he looked defeated, _broken_ , and Hermione popped her peppermint in her mouth and shoved the wrapper back in her bag, wishing fervently that she hadn't stayed and heard that. That she hadn't seen Draco Malfoy like that, broken open and vulnerable, appealingly exposed.

The incident left an unsettled feeling worming under her skin, writhing there the rest of the day, lingering in the corners of her mind. Draco Malfoy vulnerable was entirely too...intriguing. Even just the thought of him like that felt dangerous, and Hermione tried to lock it away, to stomp on it, to crush it into nothing. But still it itched at her, the memory of him, and made her feel sympathy, and a vague desire to see him look like that again, the feelings mingling strange and uneasy.

* * *

Hermione saw Malfoy next in the Ministry corridors four days later, on her way to a hearing. She never used to see him in the Ministry so often, and for a moment she wondered if he was deliberately engineering these little encounters. Except that would be ridiculous. "You're looking radiant, Granger," Malfoy said in that slow, drawling way of his, as he turned onto the corridor from out of the lift and fell in stride with her, and she harrumphed. She was draped in her unflattering Interrogator's robes, with her hair all fluffing out from its bun, and no amount of glamour charms would hide the dark circles beneath her eyes from sleepless nights fretting over what to do about her marriage.

"Sarcasm does not become you, Malfoy," she shot back, wondering exactly what his game was. She glanced up at him briefly, enough to see him raise an eyebrow, mouth curved in the faintest of - somehow bemused - smirks.

"I would dispute that," he said mildly. "But as it happens I wasn't being sarcastic." Hermione looked at him, disbelief printed deep in her features, both eyebrows rising up her forehead.

"Really. _Really._ I look radiant on four hours sleep, in this hideous, billowing robe, and with my hair doing Merlin knows what on top of my head?" she asked, and Malfoy gave a small laugh.

"Oddly enough, sarcasm does become you, Granger; extraordinarily well, in fact." She snorted and rolled her eyes, and Malfoy grinned at her; a conspiratorial sort of expression, as his long legs easily kept up with her brisk, hurried steps. "But yes. You do look radiant. Well-coiffed and fashionable? Mm...not precisely. But radiant? Yes; I stand by that." His grin was infectious and what he said was so ridiculous and yet _charming_ , that Hermione couldn't help grinning back, and laughing.

"You must have a different definition of 'radiant' than I do then, Malfoy," she retorted without pause, and his grin broadened.

"That must be the case. Perhaps we should discuss the different definitions over lunch tomorrow. I'd be happy to help explain the correct usage to you." Hermione's steps stuttered to a halt as she froze, processing Malfoy's words. Did Draco Malfoy just ask her out on a date? _No._ It couldn't be. Obviously she was mistaken.

"I'm sorry. _What?_ "

"Lunch. Tomorrow. You and I, and a reservation at The Veela's Folly," Malfoy said smoothly, naming an extremely exclusive and expensive wizarding restaurant. "I thought that - seeing as our children appear to be partners in crime - we should perhaps be getting to know one another better." He smiled charmingly, but his words struck an irritating chord in Hermione and made her bridle beneath them.

"I already know you, Malfoy." She felt numb suddenly, as she remembered. Remembering was never easy. At least he'd clarified that it wasn't a date. "I - I went to see you in -"

"Azkaban. I remember," he cut in smoothly, as if he didn't have nightmares about the war - and maybe he didn't. Lucky him, she thought idly, if that were the case. "But that was over twenty years ago, Granger. Neither of us is the same person we were then. I was a disgusting, cowardly little bigot and you..." He paused and Hermione found herself waiting for him to go on.

"Me?" she prompted impatiently at last as they traversed the corridors, annoyed at him having provoked a show of interest from her.

"Well, no, actually you were exactly the same now that I think about it. Bossy, snippy, terrible hair, brilliant, and utterly radiant, in an odd sort of way." Malfoy was still smiling that controlled, smug little smirk as he rattled off the list of back-handed compliments that left Hermione reeling, and then he took a deep breath and let it out again, as if satisfied with a job well done. "Right, Granger. Lunch then. Tomorrow. I'll pick you up from your office at noon."

"But - but Malfoy, I didn't-!" _say yes,_ Hermione finished silently as Malfoy side-stepped neatly onto one of the crowded lifts they were passing, and disappeared a moment later - whipped upwards by the lift, still smirking. The bastard. And then Hermione realised with a silent curse that she was going to be late for her next hearing if she didn't run, and all thoughts of Malfoy flew from her head.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

"Ms Granger-Weasley?" Mariska popped her head into the office, dark eyes sparking with a glee that immediately made Hermione suspicious. "Ms Granger-Weasley, Mr Malfoy is here...and he says you have a lunch date."

"Oh _shit_." Hermione's shoulders slumped and she dropped her quill to the long scroll of parchment she had been scribbling case notes on, massaging her aching wrist. She had forgotten all about Malfoy's presumptuous lunch arrangements, Merlin _damnit_.

"Come - come in, Mariska, and shut the door," she said hastily, flapping a hand in her secretary's direction. The younger woman did so, standing in front of the door with hands clasped in front of her, waiting expectantly for instructions. Her eyes still glinted with amusement. "So you're telling me he's lurking out there right now?"

"Yes, Mrs Granger-Weasley, he is. Would you like me to tell him that you're...unavailable?" The thought should be tempting, but somehow it wasn't. Hermione rationalised that Malfoy was right - with Scorpius and Rose being best friends, it probably was a good idea for the two of them to set the past aside, and attempt to become...friendly. She was, however, fully aware that her rationalising was just that. If Hermione was honest, Malfoy intrigued her, and flattered her, and actually she would rather _like_ to be taken out to a delicious lunch at an extravagant restaurant, without having had to arrange it all herself. Ron loved to bring home takeaway for them both on their occasional romantic evenings, but he would never think of taking Hermione out to a half-decent restaurant without her all but forcing him into it.

"No, Mariska. No. Um. Actually." Hermione took a deep breath and tried to dismiss the vague, niggling feeling that told her she was potentially treading on dangerous ground. "Tell him I'll be out in a moment, if you would, thanks."

Mariska smirked.

"Of course, Mrs Granger-Weasley."

Hermione saw Malfoy briefly through the open doorway as Mariska slipped out; leaning casually back against Mariska's desk, fiddling idly with his wand. He was in a Muggle suit without a robe draped over top, and there was something about him that made prickles thrill up and down her spine. Maybe it was the sense of controlled alertness to his relaxed pose, and how when their eyes met over Mariska's shoulder for the briefest second, his were somehow...predatory. Hermione ducked her head swiftly as her cheeks blazed up hot, shuffling briskly with the parchments on her desk and clearing her throat, telling herself to stop being silly. What on earth was wrong with her? It was _his_ fault - Malfoy was trying to...well, flirt? That was _ridiculous_ and utterly impossible, but whatever his game was, it seemed enormously inappropriate despite ostensibly being none of the sort.

Damn him.

He was still leaning up against Mariska's desk when Hermione emerged from her office a few moments later, having pulled herself together and straightened her clothes and hair. He was chatting easily to Mariska, who seemed a little flustered and amused at once. But when Hermione shut the door behind her with a click, he looked up and smiled at her, pushing off from Mariska's desk and shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"You look smashing, Granger," he said loudly enough for Mariska to hear, _damn_ him, his smile transforming into a lopsided grin. Hermione could see her secretary react with glee to the compliment in her peripheral vision - no doubt the technically meaningless comment would be all over the department by end of day, transformed into whispered gossip about the affair Malfoy and Granger were having. Hermione would be lucky if the news wasn't all over by the Ministry by the end of the week. She assumed the best poker face she could, smiling coolly in return and inclining her head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Malfoy," Hermione informed him, but her lips twitched into an almost smile as she spoke, belying her words. She did like it actually, but then who could blame her? She was about to hit forty and her marriage was a mess - _of course_ she appreciated a harmless compliment, even if it was from Malfoy, who couldn't really mean it. He grinned again, and strode forward, so that she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He ducked his head, lips by her ear and breath hot, the scent of cologne hanging subtle around him.

"We'll see," he murmured, and then straightened, his face transforming with a smirking sort of mischief as he looked down at her. He was just teasing her, _clearly_ \- trying to rile her up - and some of the tension that had been winding Hermione's muscles tight evaporated at that, leaving her loose-boned and feeling unexpectedly light and warm. Almost relaxed. She arched an eyebrow, allowing a knowing smile to flicker at the corners of her lips.

"I'm sure we will." Hermione stepped around him neatly then, stopping by Mariska's desk and tapping her nails on it, to get the young woman's attention. She leant down, pitching her voice low enough that Malfoy would have to strain to hear it. "If I hear a single bad word about this lunch from anyone in the department, I will be very displeased, do you understand? This is a friendly lunch because our children are friends, and I am not in the right place to be dealing with rumours of an affair right now. I expect confidentiality from you, Mariska." The younger woman looked a little wide-eyed at that - Hermione would never normally speak so bluntly with her - but she nodded swiftly, and Hermione believed she would hold her tongue - or at least not make the gossip out to be romantic when she retold it.

"Of course, Mrs Granger-Weasley - I would never…" Actually she _would_ , but Hermione couldn't blame her. It was natural for people to want to gossip, especially when the subject of gossip was their bosses and other higher-ups, as she and Malfoy were.

" _Thank_ you, Mariska. Have a nice lunch," Hermione told her secretary in a louder voice, and then looked back toward Malfoy expectantly. He nodded to Mariska and bid her good day politely, but amusement creased his face, and Hermione knew he must have managed to hear Hermione's stern word of caution to the younger woman. In fact he'd probably eavesdropped deliberately, she thought, with wry humour instead of the annoyance that should have been present.

"Well, come on then, Malfoy - we'd best be off. I don't usually take long lunches."

"Of course you don't," he answered, the four words somehow packed with meaning, but there was fondness there, buried beneath the amusement, and the snarkiness, and Hermione found herself smiling as she swept out of the office, Malfoy following - rather satisfyingly - in her wake.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

* * *

"You're not exactly dressed for lunch at The Veela's Folly," Malfoy observed hesitantly as they headed for the lift, side by side. Hermione glanced sharply up at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her neat dark grey trouser suit. It was crisp and simple and extremely practical, but with a white silk blouse, heels, and an apparently on-trend necklace Rose had bought for her, Hermione had felt stylish. She suddenly felt rather unsure of that, although she didn't show it. She'd never been good at looking anything but underdressed, or dowdy.

"I thought I looked smashing?" she asked with a bare hint of acid to her tone, as they stepped into an empty lift. She didn't like compliments being retracted; it smacked of… What did Muggle pop culture call it...? _Negging_ , that was it. An insult disguised as a compliment, and if he was doing _that_ then he could go to hell.

"Oh, you _do_. Absolutely," Malfoy answered immediately and honestly; enough sincerity to nip Hermione's rising wariness of his intentions in the bud. "But I think I know enough about women to know that isn't a lunch date outfit." He smirked infuriatingly down at her as the lift door rattled shut, and then they jerked upwards in the lift car. Hermione leaned back against the wall to balance better in her heels, as the lift shot through the Ministry's depths.

"Date?" she queried archly, folding her arms across her chest beneath her breasts, and for a worrying moment rather liked the way ' _date'_ sounded. She liked the thought of it; being wooed, even by Draco Malfoy. Especially? She wasn't sure right now, if she was honest with herself. "I thought this was a friendly lunch?"

"Even for a _friendly lunch_ ," Malfoy corrected himself wryly. "You would have worn that skirt you love so much," he pointed out, standing very close to her, with his fingers shoved in his pockets.

"The pencil one that hugs your hips just -" He pulled his hands out of his pockets and outlined the swell of hips in the air with his hands, grinning in just the right way so that the flirtation could be passed off as a joke. Hermione blushed slightly, at both the fact that Malfoy had eyed and admired her body, and at the general observation. She didn't like the idea that she had an obvious favourite 'go to' skirt, and that Malfoy - and Merlin knew who else - noticed it. Clearly she needed to go shopping.

"It's very flattering," she defended - stupidly, because Malfoy wasn't criticising her choices if his blatant admiration ofher hips was any indication, just pointing them out.

"Oh, it is. Very," Malfoy agreed easily, with a dark kind of emphasis, and Hermione felt the conversation spiral out of her control entirely. "As is this -" He waved at her trouser suit. "- But very...business-like."

"Since when did you become a critic of women's fashions, Malfoy?" Hermione avoided neatly, eying his no doubt criminally expensive, tailored suit - a perfect marriage of Muggle and Wizarding fashions. He was rather a metrosexual man, she supposed with an inward smile, with his neatly manicured nails and perfect skin, and always impeccable suits.

"Oh, it's always been a hobby," he said airily, and then: "Admit it. You forgot about lunch, didn't you?" He leaned in a little as he asked, one hand bracing up against the lift wall near her shoulder, and his voice was all dark humour, and the faintest scent of cologne wafted off him, deliciously. Hermione tried to cover the flustered reaction his proximity aroused, staring at the knot of his tie and keeping her breathing dead even. Alone in the confines of the lift, Malfoy was far too tempting altogether - especially when her last conversation with Ron sat sour and unpleasant in the corner of her mind.

"If I recall correctly, I never actually agreed to lunch in the first place, Malfoy," she told him, deliberately pert, not quite flirtatious.

"So you forgot." He smirked fleetingly, still standing too close. The lift banged to a halt then, and Hermione pulled herself straight and composed immediately; she couldn't see past Malfoy to know if anyone was getting on, and he was infuriatingly slow in stepping away from her. They probably looked like they were about to kiss, the way Malfoy was leaning braced over her. Oh Merlin, this was not what she needed right now. She didn't need Mariska to spread gossip; she was taking care of that herself. God. Panic seized her and made her act stupidly.

"Yes," she snapped brusquely and sidestepped to get away from him, not missing the flutter of hurt that crossed his face. Annoyance surged up in her when she saw there was nothing in the doorway but an interdepartmental memo. Oh _damn_. She tried to compose herself, looking up to meet Malfoy's eyes, annoyance seething toward _him_ , because it was his fault for standing so inappropriately close. "I _forgot_. I have a great deal on my plate, Malfoy, between my work, my marriage, and my daughter getting into trouble thanks in part to your son - so no, a friendly lunch with you that I never even agreed to, wasn't a priority."

Silence fell after she finished speaking, broken only by the lift rattling into life. Malfoy's shoulders dropped and his smirk faded, and he looked nothing other than utterly deflated. Hermione felt absurdly guilty.

"I apologise, Granger. If I had any idea I was being an inconvenience to you…" he seemed sincere but this time, Hermione didn't believe him at all.

"You would have continued to ride roughshod over what everyone else wanted, and do exactly what you pleased and damn the consequences, as you've always done?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, arms still crossed, willing the lift to hurry up and deposit them at the Ministry entrance. At this rate, if lunch even happened, it was going to be a _disaster_. And yet she still couldn't stop thinking about how _close_ he was standing, just to the left of her - if she stepped forward her left shoulder would meet his arm.

"That's unfair, Granger."

"Why?" she shot back, feeling prickly and angry. _Men._ Ron was a useless lump, Malfoy was an arrogant prat, and she was stuck having to deal with them both whether she liked it or not. How had this happened? Anger bloomed like a hothouse flower. "You harass me in the corridors, you send me flowers, you ask the secretarial pool about me, you turn up on my office doorstep, you railroad me into going to lunch - why should I think you'd care about consequences?" Malfoy's face drained of what little colour it had, as Hermione spoke, and by the end of it, he'd taken a step back, his face ashen and mortified.

"It wasn't - I didn't…" It had been a long time since she'd seen Malfoy lost for words, but now he was stuttering over sentences, inept and near speechless, blood returning to his face as an embarrassed blush. In hindsight, she rather wished she hadn't mentioned his pestering the secretaries. "I apologise. Again. Deeply. I had no idea that you felt harassed." It seemed to pain him to say the word, and he looked away from her. "I'll get off at the next stop, and leave you well alone from now on. Except for when we may have to communicate about the children, of course."

Oh Merlin. That wasn't what Hermione wanted at all, actually. She reached out as if to grab his wrist when he moved away from her, and he halted despite her hand stopping short, cocking his head to the side and watching her very gravely. Heat blush flooded her cheeks.

"No, don't," she said, and then pulled her hand back and looked down at the toes of her high heels for a moment, trying pointlessly to hide her blush. "I'd like lunch, Malfoy. I'm the one who should be sorry. That was entirely inappropriate of me. I just...things haven't exactly been great right now, at home," she admitted, shocking herself with her own openness as she looked up into Malfoy's grave stare. "Ron and I are on a break." The words hung in the air between them, and Hermione saw something on his face change, but she didn't know what. Was it relief? "I shouldn't take that out on you, though."

"Take it out on me as much as you like, Granger," he said with a smirk that was there and gone in a fleeting second, and then: "Really though, I'm sorry to hear that you're unhappy. You deserve to be...appreciated." Chills ran all over her at that, coming from him in a low, sincere drawl, his eyes drifting over her face and down, and Hermione suddenly felt very, very aware of every, single, part of herself. And then he smiled and sighed, the moment passing on undisturbed - the tension snapping and dissipating, and Hermione was nearly disappointed. "I think this is a good excuse for ordering extra boozy drinks at lunch - and you can bitch at me about Weasley as much as you like. I promise I won't mind."

Hermione laughed at that - out loud and easy, and then bit her lip as she smiled, feeling giddy and light, hand going to her throat and fiddling idly with the top button there.

"Oh, I know you wouldn't. And...perhaps I will, at that." It was a tempting thought, to confide in _Malfoy_ of all people, because she knew she wouldn't have to worry about being nice, or fair, or polite, like she would with Harry, or Ginny, or even her other old school friends. She could be as rude as she liked, and Malfoy wouldn't shoot her a disapproving look and make her feel guilty. It sounded rather dangerously _fun._

"Maybe I will."

* * *

By the time they reached the restaurant - disapparating from the Ministry to the small outlook in the wilderness that The Veela's Folly was located at, and wandering up the path to the elegant building - Hermione had discreetly undone her top two buttons. Because why not? She was still perfectly decent, with her soft, full cleavage framed gently by the white silk. Most of the women at work her age and under arrived with plenty of cleavage on display. Hermione was just prone to bouts of prudishness when it came to her own garb, and she could readily admit it. But today she felt like being less prudish. She would show off her cleavage while out to lunch with Malfoy if she liked, and Ron could go to hell.

The wind whisked her breath away and did its best to destroy her neat bun - to no avail thank Merlin - and Malfoy took her elbow in a gentlemanly fashion halfway up the path, and she allowed it with a small smile of thanks. It was brisk and cold in the wilderness The Veela's Folly was situated in - in the south-east of England, on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The air was salt and the wind was rough, and Hermione was glad of Malfoy's steadying grip. They stopped at the entrance to the building - a beautiful large balcony, which would be lovely to eat on in the middle of summer with the brilliant view across the Channel, but wasn't quite so lovely now.

Hermione walked across to the balcony rail despite the biting wind, casting a warming charm on herself, the tension and shivers easing out of her as warmth radiated from her core and the wind became little more than a minor annoyance. Malfoy joined her, standing close enough that their bodies brushed together warm and firm when the wind gusted and she swayed with it a fraction. They stared out at the sea, raging up in frothing churns and swells, crashing noisy against the cliffs beneath the sweep of cloud-filled sky.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, the wind snatching the words from her mouth and whisking them away into silence, but he heard.

"Bleak," he observed in return, low and neutral, standing so close now that they no longer touched when the wind pressed against them. They just _touched._

"I would have thought you would have liked the bleak aesthetic," Hermione said inanely, looking across and up at him, and he smiled, shaking his head in the negative.

"No. Although I don't blame you. That kind of reputation seems to go with the Malfoy name. But no. I like soft things. Lushness, and warmth, and the luxury of comfortableness, and the beauty in things that are bright and strong, and not cultivated carefully." And they both knew perfectly well that he wasn't talking about anything other than her. Hermione swallowed hard, absorbing the words.

"A _friendly_ date?" she said, because she didn't feel there was any point in beating about the bush, and he shrugged in return, not even trying to deny that the compliments had been for her.

"It seems my appreciation for you is out in the open, thanks to the secretarial pool, so I see no point in trying to hide it. Unless of course it makes you uncomfortable." He was very blasé and matter-of-fact, and it was surprisingly disarming, and she shook her head _no_ \- it didn't make her uncomfortable, honestly. "We may both be married and unavailable, but there's nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation at lunch, Granger."

Hermione questioned that, very much. But considering Malfoy seemed about the last thing from happily married, and she was on the brink of separation…

" _Appreciation?_ What am I, a fine wine?" she asked in mock-offence, and he chuckled, turning away from the view and leaning his weight back against the rail, as though it wasn't a long fall into the sea directly behind him. It made her stupidly nervous.

"Well, it wouldn't be an entirely inaccurate description." His gaze grazed light and smiling over her - lingering at her breasts, and she knew with a hot flush of something good that he'd noticed the buttons she'd undone. And then he pushed away from the railing, holding out his arm for her to take. "And speaking of wine - shall we go in?"

She paused gaze flitting questioningly from his arm to his face. She didn't want to attract unwanted attention over nothing. "Don't worry," he said, sensing her trepidation. "The staff here are paid not to spread silly rumours."

So Hermione hooked her arm through Malfoy's, and they went in together, her heart feeling tight in her chest. It felt like a betrayal of Ron to do this - just to flirt and eat with Malfoy, in a perfectly public, if discreet, place. With the way Ron felt about Malfoy, even if Malfoy wasn't attracted to her, something like this becoming public knowledge could so easily end Hermione and Ron's failing marriage. And Hermione realised with something that felt like a muddle of nausea and wild freedom, that she didn't particularly care if Ron found out.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

"Why are you even calling?" Hermione asked, staring blankly across the street as she watered the front garden, mobile phone held to her ear. Tension thrummed through her as she struggled to keep her voice even and calm. On the phone with Ron for less than a minute, and they were already on the verge of arguing.

"I was just letting you know I'm at the Burrow, Hermione. In case you need anything. That's all," he said, sounding sulky and angry down the line.

"And what does that have to do with scolding me for getting flowers?"

Somehow Ron had heard on the wizarding grapevine about the dainty and beautiful arrangement of lisianthus Malfoy had sent her after their lunch at The Veela's Folly. They were sitting inside on the breakfast bar inside at this very moment - if she craned her neck she could see them sitting there through the window; a pretty splash of colours. Lisianthus for _appreciation_. Like a fine wine, she'd thought with a grin and a blush when she'd googled the meaning. _Appreciation;_ what Malfoy felt for her, and if she was honest it made her feel giddy.

"From Malfoy, Hermione!"

"Oh for god's sake, Ron, they were just some silly old fashioned way of saying thank you for going to lunch." She tried to keep her voice calm so that the nosy neighbours didn't hear her having a row down the phone, shouting like some fishwife.

" _Lunch?_ " Ron almost shrieked down the phone, half deafening Hermione. Oh shit. She hadn't been mentioning that for a reason. Hermione flipped the hose off at the nozzle, abandoning the marigolds and picking her way across the damp lawn in bare feet.

"It was to talk about the children, Ron." She turned off the hose tap at the wall. "About Rose and Scorpius. They've been spending a lot of time together -"

"Just like you and his fucking ferret father? Having cosy lunches and sending flowers?" Ron spat and for a moment Hermione could hear a commotion in the background on his end of the line. Of course, she thought with weary resignation as she wiped her damp feet on the door mat and locked the door behind her. Everyone at the Burrow would be listening in, no doubt. As much as she loved them all, that was one thing she wouldn't miss...if...

"They're friends -" she began to explain as she made her way over to the breakfast bar, stooping to rest her elbows on the benchtop and fiddling with an earring.

"Oh and what are you and -"

"- Malfoy and I are barely acquaintances!" She straightened, free hand making a fist.

"Who have lunch and send flowers? You must think I'm an idiot, Hermione," Ron snapped, all nasty meanness, and she flinched. It hurt, but more than hurting, it made her angry.

"Well, when the shoe fits, _Ronald,_ " she snapped, losing her patience. "Malfoy wanted to speak to me about the children, because if you'd read the last owl I'd sent you - which you obviously haven't - you'd know Rose has been getting in trouble for protecting Scorpius from bullying, and -"

"Why couldn't you talk about that in the office?"

"He asked me to lunch, and he'd already booked it, and I didn't have any plans, and it just...it seemed reasonable to go!"

"I don't want _my wife_ going to lunch with Draco bloody Malfoy! "

"You don't get to just order me about, Ronald! This is not the fifties, and I am not some obedient possession who'll do whatever you want. You're being ridiculous, and controlling, and completely irrational!" She yelled it down the phone at him, eyes filling up with tears.

"The hell I don't! I think I should be allowed to tell my bloody wife that she shouldn't go to lunch with a sleazy, up himself, dick of an ex-Death Eater!" he yelled back down the line, crackly and distorted, clearly ropeable with fury.

"Well we're on a break right now so even if you _could_ tell me what to do, you can't right now. I can do whatever I want," she bit out through her teeth - and wanted to take it back almost as soon as she'd said it. It was too hurtful. "I -"

"Fuck you, Hermione, you - you cheating _whore_ ," Ron snarled then before she could reply, venom saturating his voice. She sank down onto a stool at the breakfast bar as he went on, her eyes welling up with tears and nausea digging at her stomach. "You stuck up bitch. You always think you're so much better than me. So much cleverer. So much classier. Really though, you're just an arrogant, stuck up, know-it-all - you and Malfoy deser-"

There was the sound of a scuffle then, and then Harry's voice came on the line. _Harry_. Harry had been there, eavesdropping, while she was here in her and Ron's house, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt before. Ron's accusations rang in her head.

"Hermione? Hermione are you there?"

"Yes." She stared at the multi-coloured arrangement of pretty lisianthus numbly; they looked like poppies, some of them, and others more like tulips, while others resembled delicate full blown roses. They were so pretty. So thoughtful a gesture for Malfoy to make. So _dangerous_.

Bitch. Arrogant. Stuck up. Whore.

Hermione wished she'd never gone to lunch. No, she wished she'd never come back from lunch - yes, why not. If she was going to be accused of it, and punished for it, it was a real shame not to have been able to actually do it. She stared at the flowers and wondered what it would feel like to kiss Malfoy's mouth. Alone on the balcony of The Veela's Folly like they had been yesterday, with the sea crashing below them and the freezing wind snatching at her hair and clothes.

"Shit. Shit, Hermione, Ron didn't mean that. You know he didn't mean that, right? He was just...well you know what he's like." Harry rushed to defend his other best friend, his tone all overflowing with concern. "Are you all right, Hermione?"

"I'm fine, Harry. Really. But I'm really not comfortable with talking to you about this right now," Hermione said numbly, rather certain she was in shock. Harry started to protest, but she cut him off as sobs started to heave up in her chest, making her breathing funny. "No. I don't want to. Tell Ron...tell him to read my letter, and then owl me when he's calmed down."

Then Hermione ended the call without so much as a goodbye and put her mobile on aeroplane mode to avoid all the further calls she was certain would come in, sliding it across the bench to be halted with a rattle by collision with the pen jar.

"Screw you, Ron Weasley," she said, raw and wet, and then dissolved into wretched, unwelcome tears.

* * *

Hermione laid down her self-inking quill and folded the letter for Rose, shuffling it carefully into an addressed envelope and gathering it up along with the one for Hugo, as she stood. Usually she would write to the children at home, but she'd spent most of last night crying, thanks to her conversation with Ron. She still hadn't even turned her mobile back on for fear of the deluge of texts and voicemails. But she'd had a lull in her workload this morning, and had decided to dash the children off a quick note each. She missed them both very badly right now, with Ron off at the Burrow and everything so awful.

She'd give the letters to Mariska to post now, she thought, and then it would just about be midday and time to take lunch 'til 1pm, then do some paperwork. and then she had an appointment with Thornton from departmental accounts at 2pm - a minor budgeting issue that shouldn't take long to sort out. And by then the files on the Quincy case should have arrived, and until the end of the workday, she would be absorbed in the Quincy files. What fun.

Hermione rounded her desk envelopes in hand. and pulled her office door open, Mariska's name on her lips - only to come face to chest with Malfoy, who had his fist hovering in the air as though he had been about to knock. She took a quick step back in startled discomposure, and so did he, lowering his hand.

"Granger," he greeted her, inclining his head politely, and memories of how gentlemanly he'd been the day before yesterday rose unbidden in her mind. Gentlemanly...and also intelligent, sympathetic, dryly witty, and genuinely interested in what she'd had to say. He had been surprisingly pleasant company, and they had hardly bickered at all - and even that had clearly been playful. And right now Hermione couldn't help comparing his behaviour to Ron's even though that was probably entirely unfair of her.

"...Malfoy. What brings you down here?" she asked slowly, head canting to the side slightly and one hand resting on a hip, envelopes clutched in the other hand. Behind her she could see Mariska at her desk, watching them both with a smirk on her lips. The young woman had sent Malfoy through to surprise her on purpose, Hermione knew, and while normally that would irritate her, today she fought to keep a smile off her own lips.

"Lunch," Malfoy said succinctly, arching a dark blonde brow in query. Hermione hesitated, and he went on smoothly but she could sense his uncertainty and eagerness. It was actually rather sweet, the way he looked away shyly, and rocked on his heels ever so slightly. He seemed for a moment like an overgrown boy - awkward and filled with nervous anticipation - and nothing at all like the permutations of Draco Malfoy that Hermione had seen up until now. The arrogant, insecure boy, the frightened, cruel teen, the reclusive young adult, who'd eventually re-joined society as a distant, haughty man who was suave and quick to snarkiness - the man before her was like none of those.

"Lunch?" She echoed it, as a question, slipping past him toward Mariska, tossing a casual glance over her shoulder. Malfoy shifted to face her, looking slightly set off-balance by her nonchalance.

"We actually didn't talk about Scorpius and Rose, at the Folly. And I feel like, considering the trouble they've been having at school, perhaps we should," he said carefully while Mariska watched their exchange like a hawk. Hermione didn't care that the young woman was listening - Malfoy had made a perfectly reasonable suggestion. And also Hermione wouldn't actually mind it getting back to Ron; it would serve him right after his behaviour to know that Hermione wasn't going to do his bidding. She smiled to herself.

"Well, I was actually just heading out for lunch now, Malfoy, if you'd like to join me. Nowhere as fancy as The Veela's Folly, though." She was actually planning on eating lunch at a small Muggle café she liked, in London near the entrance to Diagon Alley. It had the most delicious croissants she'd had outside of France, which wasn't really saying a lot, she supposed - she didn't exactly frequent cafés often. Which was probably good, because considering the delicious, buttery treats they had, she'd pile on the pounds in no time.

"I'm not fussy, Granger. Lead on and I'll follow," he answered, and for a moment their eyes met and he _smiled_ at her, in such a way that her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse stuttered, palms beginning to sweat. She turned away quickly and held the letters for the children out to Mariska.

"Would you mind posting these off before your lunch break?" she asked as Mariska took them. "They're for Rose and Hugo."

"Of course, Mrs Granger-Weasley. No problem." Mariska gave her a bright look. "Enjoy your lunch," she told Hermione meaningfully, and Hermione hid a quiet laugh from Malfoy, rolling her eyes at her secretary.

"Ta, Mariska. You too." And then she swept out of the office, beckoning to Malfoy, who fell in at her side with a long, lazy stride, and a glance she couldn't read.

* * *

"So this is a Muggle café," Malfoy commented, looking around with interest, and Hermione hid a smile.

"Yes, it is. Now stop saying 'Muggle' so loud. People will hear you."

"Sorry." Malfoy looked a little embarrassed - and a little odd too, a nearly forty-year-old man staring about the extremely ordinary café like a child. He looked undeniably good though despite that, stylish in a charcoal wool overcoat and soft dark blue scarf, the tip of his nose and high on his cheeks reddened with the cold. "It's very different."

Hermione looked around the plain little café with fresh eyes as she shucked her own coat, noting everything that she took for granted; aside from the modern decor the electronics were the biggest difference, and the coffees themselves of course. Wizarding society drank coffee, but only the percolated sort - and tea and butterbeer were the usual choice in cafés and pubs. It looked very different to the Victorian Era aesthetic that the wizarding community preferred.

"I suppose it is," She allowed, and then it was their turn. The young barista managed a half smile, looking harried.

"Hi, what would you like?"

"Erm... Do you mind if I...?" Hermione checked, waving at the menu board, and Malfoy shook his head.

"No, not at all. Go for it, Granger - I'll trust your judgment."

"Two servings of the pumpkin soup special, two croissants with jam, and two large lattes with a caramel shot each thanks," Hermione ordered, paying with her card, and smiling to herself as she noted Malfoy's keen interest in the process. "And can you hold the croissants and coffee 'til...oh, ten minutes after the soup?"

"No problem." The barista scribbled on her notepad, and smiled tiredly, holding out their table number card in its metal holder. Hermione took it and turned to look for a free table, shuffling out of the way a little and waving Malfoy along with her. It wasn't very busy today, happily enough.

"There!" she said enthusiastically. "That table by the window." It was a quiet spot in a corner of the cafe with a view of the footpath, and they settled in comfortably.

"So that number...?" Malfoy asked as he slid his scarf from around his neck, and rasped the heel of his hand idly over his stubble.

"Is the number of our order. When our order is ready, the waitress will be able to find us thanks to the number we have displayed on the table. Very efficient."

"Ahh." Malfoy nodded sagely, and a brief silence fell between them, before:

"Did you - did you get the lisianthus bouquet?" he asked tentatively, looking nervous again, and Hermione felt like kicking herself. In all the stress of Ron spitting the dummy, she'd forgotten to write a thank you note to Malfoy. She'd meant to, of course, but it had been lost in the mix - somewhere between drinking well over a bottle of wine, and weeping her eyes out.

"I did! And Merlin, I'm sorry, I meant to thank you - I meant to owl you a note last night in fact - but I got distracted by...erm, family issues, and -"

"Did you like them?" Malfoy interrupted, grey stare warm and amused on her face as he cut through her waffling apologies, and Hermione nodded swiftly.

"Lisianthus for appreciation," she said without thinking and then blushed hot, dropping her gaze to the table top for a moment. Then:

"Thank you, Malfoy. I appreciate the flowers - and your thoughtfulness. They're both very pleasant surprises." Automatically her gaze flicked up to his face and then down again - shamelessly coy, and she cringed at herself. She wasn't some silly girl, and this wasn't a date.

"It's my pleasure," Malfoy told her, and it seemed like more than just a polite response coming from his lips. Staring at him across the table, Hermione could feel the sincerity in his tone. And perhaps a completely different sort of pleasure and sincerity in the way he looked at her, in her peach silk blouse with the top four buttons undone and brand new charcoal coloured pencil skirt with a daring slit at the side, her hair beaten into a soft bun, little wavy locks wisping out.

And then a waitress arrived with the food, and dashed the burgeoning moment into nothing. Hermione thanked the woman, as Malfoy looked away from her, sliding his hands through his hair and fiddling with his cufflinks in an unmistakable attempt to refocus himself. Hermione thought that she should probably be glad the waitress had interrupted, because really romantic moments with Malfoy were really the last thing she should want - her life did not need to be more complicated right now. She might be on a break from Ron, but engaging romantically with Malfoy was...well, not wise at all, and she was too old to be foolish.

"So - Rose was telling me that Scorpius made Seeker. You must be very proud. Like father like son?" Hermione asked, blowing on a spoonful of steaming hot soup to cool it, before trying it - it proved to be delicious, as always.

"Yes, I'm very proud of Scorpius. But Salazar, I don't hope he takes after me," Malfoy said dryly, smirking a little ruefully. "I certainly don't want him to follow in my footsteps. Luckily, aside from his incredible prowess at Quidditch, he's nothing like the stupid little git that I was at his age."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, finishing another mouthful of soup, before inquiring just as dryly as he:

"Incredible prowess, Malfoy?" Her disbelieving 'really' goes unspoken, and Malfoy grins around his spoon.

"Mmhmm." Then: "Utterly amazing would also work, if you preferred. Also, magnificent, and -"

"Oh shut up," she told him, grinning back. "You know, you act so full of yourself, Malfoy, I'd nearly believe you were serious."

"You think I'm not?" He arched a brow, and she made a face at him.

"You're infuriating, do you know that? And, you have a way of sneakily making every conversation all about you," she realised and said in the same moment, jabbing her soup spoon toward him accusingly. He looked genuinely surprised by that, and then thoughtful.

"I do apologise," he said smoothly a moment later. "And in the interests of turning the conversation away from myself, I notice you've bought a new skirt."

"I - what?" Hermione spluttered without thinking to censor her reaction, although luckily she brought her hand up to hide her mouthful of soup and toast. "How do you know it's new?"

"Well, you just confirmed that, Granger," he pointed out. "But maybe I just guessed. Or someone told me. Or perhaps I'm just a keen observer and attentive to detail."

Hermione smiled smugly. "Or _maybe_ , you just stare at me a lot more than is appropriate in a workplace."

"Lucky this isn't a workplace, then," he shot back.

"So you admit it then," she said slyly, feeling silly and happy and light as she pointed across the table at him again, this time with a toast finger she'd already dipped. It wilted, so she popped the soggy toast in her mouth, expecting him to come out with something else that dodged the point in an amusing, witty fashion.

But instead:

"Of course," was all he said, very calmly and matter-of-fact, and Hermione's stomach lurched with a delicious pleasure. "And so I noticed that you've never worn this particular skirt before - it's rather notably different to what you usually wear, save your favourite - and so I assumed it was new. And may I say," he added with an artful nonchalance. "You look _uncommonly_ lovely in it."

She blushed. Flamingly. But she'd take the compliment, she decided - she got few enough of them from Ron so as not feel guilty about compliments from other men. "Thank you, Malfoy. Flatterer."

"Not flattery, Granger. Admiration." He smiled at her, an oddly gentle expression, and...slightly sad? Only not for himself, but for her, and she bristled just barely at that; what exactly _was_ the gossip circulating about her and Ron right now? She knew there would have to be some - he'd have told the Weasleys, and probably at least half the Quidditch team, and no doubt one of them would have spilt the beans about the temporary separation. The _break._ Oh god, she thought suddenly with a jolt of horror. What if their decision to take a break got into the papers? The children might see. Panic gripped her for a brief moment, and she forgot entirely where she was.

"Are you all right, Granger?" Malfoy's voice broke through Hermione's swirling panic, and she was yanked firmly back to reality - to the small Muggle café, and the pale, handsome man sitting across the table from her.

"Oh, yes - sorry," Hermione said as she waved a hand dismissively, smiling apologetically across the table at him. "My mind went wandering - between work and the - the break I've been rather busy distracted lately.."

"Mm," Malfoy said, and then swallowed his mouthful of soup. There was a little smear of it on his lower lip, and Hermione fought the urge to wipe it away - and then his tongue darted out and swept his lip clean. Her abdomen twinged oddly; a feeling that darted down into her womb and made her feeling glowing warm. Malfoy's voice was sympathetic as he went on. "I heard on the grapevine yesterday that your husband is still staying at his parents'."

" _What?_ Where - how?" Hermione gaped at him in shock, the pleasant feeling in her abdomen chased away by cold dread. Malfoy winced.

"Oh shit. I'm sorry. Were you trying to keep it hush-hush?"

"Yes! Well...I don't know. I certainly didn't want it spread all over the Ministry though! Next thing it'll end up in the damned Daily Prophet, and -" She broke off, sighing and rubbing little circles at her temples as she felt a stress headache coming on. She met Malfoy's sympathetic gaze steadily, trying to pretend that she wasn't about to panic, scream in frustration, and burst into tears. She hadn't looked in the paper yet today; she wouldn't be surprised if it was at least _alluded_ to in the gossip column. _Shit._

"Who did you hear it from, Malfoy? And when?"

He looked deeply uncomfortable.

"My secretary, yesterday." He answered her reluctantly, but thankfully without trying to dodge the question. Hermione sighed - she wasn't surprised it was the _bloody_ secretarial pool - and resisted the urge to sink her head into her hands and come apart at the seams.

"And how did she know?"

"Granger...I don't think I'm the person to be talking to about this. You should be talking to your husband," Malfoy prevaricated, and Hermione leaned forward, wanting to yell at him to tell her everything he bloody well knew, but all too aware of the people sitting around them. She settled for the voice she used when Rose was acting out; a deadly calm, steely tone.

"You can't just let things like that slip and then refuse to tell me anything more, Malfoy. That is cruel, and wrong, and _unfair_. If there's something you know that you think I should know, _then tell me_." She stared him directly in the eyes, asking for his understanding, resolutely ignoring the awkwardness strung tense in the air between them. He looked undecided and horribly uncomfortable, and Hermione tried blackmail with little hope that it would work. "Please, Malfoy. Either tell me, or I'm leaving."

Malfoy looked torn for a long moment further, and then he shook his head, apologetic and awkward. "Sorry, Granger. But maybe you should go then - use the rest of your lunchbreak to talk to Weasley." He looked tired, suddenly - older and more worn than he should at thirty-nine. "I'm not about to get in the middle of someone else's marriage, and I'm not going to be the one who breaks news to people when I don't know if it'll be bad news or not."

"Malfoy..." Visions flashed through Hermione's mind, driving her mad with anxiety. What had Ron done? Was he flirting with the secretaries? Spreading gossip by bitching about her within earshot of people? Had he told the team and had they spread it around? Or talked about how she'd laid there like a dead fish during sex? Oh _Merlin_ she wanted to cry, and she needed to _know,_ and if it was something awful, as she rather suspected it was, then she'd rather not hear it from Ron's lips. But Malfoy shook his head again, jaw tight and eyes dark as if he were angry, only Hermione knew it wasn't directed at her.

"It's not my place. If you want to know, ask Weasley." He said Ron's last name - _her_ last name too - with deep disdain. As if he was better than Ron. It made Hermione bristle with defensiveness, oddly. Ron might not be a brilliant husband, but Malfoy had never been a good person.

"Since when do _you_ care about what your place is?" Hermione asked in frustration. Malfoy shrugged a shoulder; expression earnest and open, and somehow helpless, grey eyes apologetic.

"Since it's you, Granger." He looked young again as he said it in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, and Hermione noticed the way his fingers curled tight into his palm and his eyes dropped from hers. Shyness written all over his face, and she realised for the first time that Malfoy wasn't just all suave, practiced flattery. He _actually_ liked her. Not just in a womanising, flirtatious throwaway manner - he actually _liked_ her. With feelings. It was written in the tightness of his voice and the stiffness of his shoulders, and the way his eyes flicked up nervously to read her reaction.

She sat there stunned; doubting herself - what if she was misreading him? - and shocked into near speechlessness. He had bought her flowers, talked to her often, taken her to lunch...but up until this very moment, Hermione had thought Malfoy was just playing the game and enjoying himself in the process. Having fun. Amusing himself with a casual attraction. But that wasn't amusement on his face right now. It was feelings - desire, longing, admiration - and it looked like they ran deep.

"Oh," she said softly, and only that, and Malfoy winced and looked away. She swore inwardly and rushed to add, lightly but with a note of sincerity:

"I appreciate that, Malfoy." His gaze slid back to her. "I can't imagine many people merit that courtesy."

He chuckled weakly. "No. Not many at all. But between your daughter defending my son, and...and your scintillating company..." He was trying for casual but he looked and sounded too nervous, long, pale fingers twisting up his paper napkin. Hermione knew with sudden, rising fright that he was going to say something that would cross the line entirely, and god what was she doing? She was a married woman. Panic flushed through her.

"The children!" she burst forth with suddenly, clutching at a safe subject to discuss, Ron totally out of mind for a moment. "We keep forgetting them."

He blinked; long lashes dark blonde, fluttering indecisively. And then his mouth curved into a wicked, sweet smile, equilibrium reached again. "We do, don't we?" There was an implication there that Hermione could hear him drawl, despite him remaining silent: _almost as if the children are just a useful subterfuge._ She swallowed hard, thinking about Rose and Scorpius, not whatever Ron might have done, or what _(she hoped?)_ Malfoy wanted to do.

"At least they haven't gotten themselves into trouble with Professor Flitwick again. And I heard from Rose that they had great fun during their detention with Hagrid," she said; safe, light, ordinary conversation. Malfoy seemed to radiate an odd mix of relief and disappointment as he listened, smiling across the table at her.

"And in her last letter she told me that the children who were bullying Scorpius had suffered an unfortunate series of misfortunes. Quite accidental, apparently," Hermione added, unable to repress a small smirk - although she had done the responsible thing and told Rose the accidents should stop before they got in trouble again.

"Scorpius doesn't write to me much," Malfoy said, a little wistful. "I write every week like clockwork, and I'm lucky to get even a short note back."

"The two of you seem to get on, though," Hermione offered, and Malfoy somehow made a smile seem edged with misery, shrugging slightly.

"We do mostly, I suppose. We were very close while he was younger. Before he went to Hogwarts we spent every day together, just him and I. But he's a teenager now -" Hermione grimaced in understanding "- and since beginning Hogwarts and having it beaten into him - often literally - that he's a bigoted monster's spawn, well." Malfoy stopped and looked down at his hands, large but elegant, twisting the paper napkin up. "There's resentment there, towards me. Which I don't blame him for. It's just made it difficult."

There was something very strangely vulnerable in seeing Malfoy be so honest, and it mesmerised Hermione, and filled her with empathy for his position. It couldn't be easy to parent with a past like his - Rose and Hugo flung every risky choice she had made that had the misfortune to be documented in the history books, back in her face. It was hard to set boundaries for your child when they had handy proof of how many mistakes you'd made. She expressed her sympathy and said as much, and Malfoy made a sound that was nearly a laugh.

"Mistakes - that's a very diplomatic way to put it, Granger."

"You were a child, Malfoy," Hermione said very earnestly, leaning forward a little, laying a hand over his, still torturing the napkin. "It didn't feel like it at the time, but looking back...you were indoctrinated from birth into playing the role that you did. You were a child trying to do what your parents had taught you were right, and while you could have chosen better, I can't blame you for what you did."

His hand shifted beneath hers, his fingers curling up and twisting around her smaller ones, and it terrified her and felt far too good at once. His fingers were warm and firm.

"You're a better person than I, Granger," he said, but she still hadn't withdrawn her hand from his so she couldn't be _that_ good. Her gaze glued itself to their hands, twisted together on the table, out in the open in front of everyone, and even though they were in the Muggle world, nervousness churned in her stomach. What if someone saw? No one would ever believe it was innocent. Merlin, she knew it wasn't innocent.

"Two large lattes with caramel shots, and two croissants?" a bright voice asked, and Hermione snatched her hand away guiltily from Malfoy's, and immediately cursed herself for making them look suspicious and awkward. She felt her cheeks flare hot, Malfoy's gaze amused and knowing on her, and the pretty waitress smiling just as knowingly.

"Yes, that's us thanks." She pushed her mostly finished soup and toast over to the side, clearing a space for her coffee and croissant. Malfoy followed suit, bestowing a charming smile on the waitress as he thanked her mutedly. The waitress bustled off, and Hermione sighed in relief, still embarrassed by her own behaviour. She took a sip of her latte, letting her nerves settle, and then lifted her eyes to Malfoy; far too lean and attractive across the table in his suit - the cut and style of it influenced just enough by wizarding fashions for it to appear exotic and vintage in the Muggle world.

Merlin, he was undeniably appealing. She couldn't help but compare him to Ron, who perpetually slobbed about in jeans and a tee shirt, as though he was still in his early twenties and not a middle-aged, married father of two. She didn't ask for high fashion perfection, but it would be nice if Ron could make an effort sometimes. And Merlin, now she was thinking about Ron, and worry flooded her sickly. She pushed it aside and tried to focus, forcing a smile.

"We - erm, now that I know Rose and Scorpius are friends, we'll have to make sure they stay in contact over the Christmas hols. I feel terrible that they haven't been able to spend time together in the holidays before now," she said casually, ignoring the fact that only a moment ago they had essentially been holding hands. Malfoy finished his mouthful of croissant, nodding.

"Of course. I'm sure Scorpius will love that. He'll be spending a week of the holidays in Spain with his mother, but other than that he'll be at home with me." So Astoria was still in Spain, was she? Hermione found herself wondering how permanent that living arrangement was. Clearly there was no love lost between Astoria and Malfoy, but Hermione doubted a legal separation was on the horizon - purebloods didn't divorce without dire reason.

"And where is 'at home' for you? The Malfoy Manor?" Hermione felt herself tense even as she said the words, old memories stirring in the dusty recesses of her mind. Nightmares uncoiling beneath dust cloths she'd thrown over them; stretching and rustling all full of menace. The smile she bestowed on Malfoy was brittle. He was staring at her arm, and she realised with an embarrassed jolt that she was rubbing at her forearm through her blouse with a thumb, where Bellatrix Lestrange had cut her. She pulled her hand away and cradled her latte in both hands, raising an eyebrow at Malfoy.

"No, not the Manor," he said after a moment, sounding as though he was lost in far off memory himself. "I never liked the Manor after the war. I purchased a house in Ilkley with the money I got from my parents after Astoria and I were married. I didn't want to raise my child in the Manor. Not with all the..." He trailed off, shame and old ghosts carved into the set of his features.

"I know," Hermione finished quietly, and he shot her a grateful look, all smoky-warm grey eyes and faint tilt of a smile. "Ilkley sounds lovely though. It's a well-established wizarding village isn't it?"

"It is - one of the oldest in Britain. It's experienced a bit of a boom since the War. Lots of Muggleborns and Muggle families with magical children have been moving there. It's thriving." Polite small talk, yes, but it was still enjoyable. Hermione found it fascinating to see how Malfoy had changed; talking animatedly about how Scorpius had gone to a day school for magical children - Muggleborn and half-blood alike, as well as a few purebloods, squibs, and even the Muggle siblings of Muggleborn children. It had been a bit of a social experiment, apparently, and the roll now had over sixty children. Malfoy didn't say as much, but Hermione suspected that he funded it.

"And what about you, Granger? You live in the Muggle world, don't you?"

"You're well informed, Malfoy. Wandsworth, to be exact." And she told him about their comfortable little house, and how she preferred living in the Muggle world with its access to electricity, and a wider range of friends for the children, and the normality that she remembered from her pre-magical childhood.

"It's already a quarter to one," Malfoy commented idly after they'd chatted for a pleasant while, and polished off their croissants. "Don't you want to go talk to Weasley? I don't mind."

"Actually no, I don't," Hermione told Malfoy decidedly. "I am enjoying a pleasant lunch out with a...a colleague, and I shan't cut that short to go find out what infuriating shite my husband has done." He raised a brow as if impressed; perhaps he was. She wasn't usually so piquant. "I'll go see him after lunch," Hermione added. "I don't have any appointments until two, and my workload isn't exactly heavy right now."

"So I rate over Weasley, do I?" he asked her slyly, smirking, and she laughed, feeling warm inside beneath the full force of his wicked smirk.

"That doesn't take much right now, Malfoy, to be fair," she teased, grinning. But yes, she couldn't deny that she preferred lunch with Malfoy over trying to talk to Ron. One was irrational, irritating, and exhausting, and the other made her feel...a lot of things, all of them far too tempting. And if she were sensible she wouldn't risk indulging those feelings - but Hermione was sick and tired of being sensible. She shifted in her seat a little, discreetly plucking at her blouse to better frame her generous swell of cleavage.

"But yes. I rate you." She returned his wicked smirk, feeling suddenly, dreadfully daring. "Highly."

Oh Merlin, she was so _bad_.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

The waiting room the floo opened into at the Quidditch grounds was empty today, thankfully. Hermione didn't have the time or the inclination to engage in small talk with any of the WAGs - most of them were lovely, to be fair, but they did tend to be a certain sort of person. Her shoes clacked on the wood floors as she crossed the room to the large mirror on the wall, and took a moment to dispel the soot from her clothes and hair with a charm, and check she was still reasonably presentable. Floo travel wasn't kind on your outfit.

Her reflection was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, energised despite her nervousness, and Hermione knew perfectly well that lunch with Malfoy was to blame for that. Or thank, perhaps. She looked well in her smart peacock blue wool coat and new skirt, hair swept up into a mostly tidy bun. Hermione stared at herself a moment longer, and then sighed and reluctantly did up two of her blouse buttons; neat and prim again. She still felt attractive though - and wasn't naive enough to not know it was because of Malfoy's attentions.

He had kissed her goodbye; not on the hand, but on the cheek - a soft, fleeting press of lips that she wanted to feel again.

But she was supposed to be thinking about Ron, her husband and what in Merlin's name he had done, not her silly, horrendously inappropriate mooning over another man. Hermione put Malfoy firmly out of her mind, and clacked her way briskly out of the waiting room and down the corridor, finding her way through the labyrinthine halls with the ease of long practice. She and the children had spent a good deal of time here in support of Ron - afternoons watching practices, and weekends cheering the team on in home games. Hermione still found Quidditch as dull as ever, but up until recent years she had always made sure that she and the children were present for the big moments.

Ron was down on the field, chatting to one of the players as the others swooped through the air with beautiful precision and speed. He looked up at the sound of the doors banging shut behind Hermione, and for a moment his face was blank and shocked - wiped clean of any emotion. And then he smiled uncertainly and raised a hand in greeting. It seemed reluctant, and Hermione couldn't blame him and wasn't surprised, but his reaction still just made her feel even sicker.

She stopped by the crisscross frame of the stands rising up above her, leaning against a post and lifting a hand in greeting herself. It was cold but sunny out on the pitch, but where Hermione stood was in shade, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she waited. Not cold enough to bother getting her wand out for a warming charm, but just enough to make her a little chilly. Ron said a few more words that Hermione couldn't hear, his grin forced as he clapped the player on the back and gestured for him to take to the air. He watched the player ascend smoothly, hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, and then half-jogged over to Hermione.

"'Mione." Her nickname sounded stiff and wrong on his tongue. "What are - what are you doing here?" She raised an eyebrow, still hugging herself tightly, and Ron seemed to realise belatedly how rude that sounded. "I mean, I didn't think - I wasn't expecting you. Not that it's not good to see you!" he added with false brightness. He reached out, curling his hand around her upper arm and squeezing affectionately, and Hermione stepped back. Ron's arm fell back to his side, and he shifted on his feet nervously. "What's up?"

"I heard through the grapevine that you're still at the Burrow," Hermione said sharply and with great emphasis, and Ron's face turned puzzled, expression scrunching up.

"What...? You know I am..." She rolled her eyes. Oh Merlin - sometimes Ron needed to be hit around the head with something before he got it. He didn't fare well with hints.

"As in, the secretarial pool has apparently been chatting about it. And I would like to know how and why they know, Ronald," Hermione said crisply. "Because I know that I didn't tell them."

Ron blanched pale, and Hermione's stomach flipped sickly, and then turned leaden and sank like a stone.

"What did you do, Ronald?" she demanded of him, an edge of frantic panic bleeding into her voice. They were on a break but - but it was supposed to be a break to give them space to re-evaluate their relationship, and see if they missed each other, and decide if they could repair their marriage. Not...

"I - I asked Della Carpenter out for a drink," Ron mumbled shamefacedly, mentioning one of the Ministry secretaries whom Hermione knew of, vaguely. A pretty young woman with pin straight long black hair and a petite figure. Hermione felt as though Ron had punched her in the stomach - a sick pain blossomed in her middle, and she wanted to fold double over her arms. Instead, she stared at him speechlessly, waiting for him to say something to make it right. "I - I just...I didn't mean anything by it, 'Mione, honest. She - she was at one of the team parties the other night, and I'd had too much to drink, and..."

"And you thought you'd try to get your leg over? Is that it, Ronald?" Hermione snapped before he could keep hopelessly flailing around for an explanation that wouldn't leave her furious and hurt.

"I - I'm sorry, 'Mione, I -"

"Don't you call me that. Don't you dare call me that!" she cried, and with embarrassment and helplessness realised she was screeching - shrill and angry, like a fishwife. Merlin. How would she appear to the team, circling up above if they heard her - no doubt at least some of them would watch the drama unfolding with voyeuristic interest. She didn't dare look up to see if the team _had_ noticed the humiliating domestics. Ron looked torn and miserable, reaching out to her again as if he wanted to comfort her, only to remember that he couldn't and pulling his hand back.

"Nothing happened, Hermione. She - she turned me down." Oh Merlin, that didn't help. It really didn't. "Not that anything would've happened anyway. I just..." Ron flushed bright red, freckles lost to the tomato hue of his face. "After you went out to lunch with Malfoy, I wanted to -"

"To get me back. I see," Hermione said, suddenly suffused by a deadly calm. And she did see, very clearly. It was understandable, in a way, if still hurtful and awful and utterly infuriating. Ron had been hurt by Hermione going out to lunch with another man - Malfoy no less - so he'd tried to even the score by going out for drinks with an attractive young woman.

The difference was that Hermione hadn't asked, she'd been asked, and that Malfoy 'd had a reason for asking - the children. A twinge of guilt reminded Hermione that she'd just been kissed on the cheek by Malfoy not twenty minutes ago, and that had nothing to do with politeness or the children. Still - it hurt, to know that Ron had tried to get back at her by propositioning some pretty young secretary, who had probably felt incredibly awkward over it, the poor girl. It hurt an awful lot. But yelling at him out on the Quidditch pitch wouldn't achieve anything, and would only make more of a scene. She locked her anger down hard.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I was drunk, and hurting, and stupid, and I never should have done it, but I wasn't going to do anything," Ron pleaded with her, leaning in over her so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. "I miss you, Hermione. I just want to come home."

"Well I'm not ready for you to come home, Ron. I - I haven't been happy for quite some time, and I don't think you have been either. We've been going through the motions, but...we've drifted apart. You're always putting me down, and forgetting things that are important to me - like my bloody birthday - and never doing anything that I like, and I'm sick of it. And I'm sure there are things I've done that you're not happy about either, like spending too much time on work, and the like." Hermione sighed, her chest aching, feeling exhausted by the emotions roiling in her. "So we are having a break to decide whether we can compromise enough to both be happy, or whether..."

"I - I want to compromise!" Ron insisted, and Hermione shook her head.

"It's not that simple, Ron. I need...time, and so do you. You say you want to compromise, but you never actually go through with it. In the past you've agreed to all sorts of things, but you've never actually stuck to your word. And I'm not having that anymore. You need to make your mind up, really. Think about it. Properly. And so will I." Ron stared at her speechlessly, expression crushed, and Hermione felt terrible - like a monster. But she wasn't going to keep papering over the cracks in their marriage; either they would decide to genuinely change for each other, or Hermione would call it quits. She couldn't handle half-measures anymore, not now they didn't have the children at home to distract them from their issues.

"I'll be in touch by owl if there are any issues regarding the children. Take care, Ron." Hermione stepped forward, and on impulse presented her cheek to him. The one that Malfoy hadn't kissed. Ron looked a little startled, but darted a quick kiss on her cheek anyway, just beside the corner of her mouth. His breath smelt sweetly of butterbeer, and his stubble tickled her skin. It didn't repulse her, but it didn't make her stomach flip-flop either like Malfoy's kiss had - but then was it fair for her to expect that twisting thrill to happen after so many years of marriage? Probably not.

"You too, 'Mione."

She left the way she'd came, tears pricking in her eyes in humiliation, as she thought of a drunken Ron throwing himself at Della Carpenter. Merlin, how was she supposed to get past the fact that he'd deliberately tried to hurt her? Didn't he understand how much harder he'd made everything? Just because he was angry about Malfoy didn't mean that it was okay for him to hit on a secretary in her twenties, and risk the news of their break flooding the media.

Oh Merlin - the media. Hermione needed to find a copy of the Daily Prophet - she walked quicker, trotting for the floo, her heart back in her throat as she dreaded what she might see, and racked her brains trying to remember whether or not anyone had treated her oddly today. She couldn't remember. Oh god.

* * *

"And can I have the paper if you're done with it, Mariska?" Hermione asked casually, after her secretary had passed her the messages she'd received while she'd been away from the office, and she'd passed Mariska a coffee she'd bought on the way back to work. She didn't have much time before her appointment with Thornton, but she needed to skim through and check for any articles on her and Ron.

"Oh...you heard, then?" Mariska asked in a tone saturated with awkwardness and sympathy, and Hermione nearly whimpered in despair. She kept her shoulders straight and chin up though, face perfectly smooth - the very picture of composure, she hoped.

"Heard what, Mariska?" she asked in a no-nonsense tone, and the secretary cringed a little, and rather than saying anything, flipped the paper open and thumbed seven pages in. Well, at least it wasn't on the front page, Hermione supposed bitterly, but buried in the gossip at the back, which not everyone bothered flicking through to. Mariska pointed a peach-polished nail to a tiny picture of Hermione and Ron halfway down the page - a blurry one of them outside their home in Wandsworth that looked several years old by Hermione's hairstyle. Ron looked angry, and Hermione upset, and beside the picture read the unimaginative:

 **TROUBLE IN MUGGLE PARADISE?**

"Oh my god," Hermione murmured in mortification and frustration as she skimmed through the piece. War hero couple...Harry Potter's best friends...whirlwind romance...two children...both attending Hogwarts...tensions...arguments...a source tells us the Granger-Weasleys have separated...Ron Weasley, Assistant Coach for the ... is apparently on the prowl again. It was dreadful, and sordid, and terribly humiliating. And in a move that somehow made it all the worse, the picture had been one where they'd simply been bickering about whether or not to put in a fence around the property. Hermione remembered that day very clearly - they'd gotten ridiculously annoyed with each other over the topic, but had gone and had delicious makeup sex afterwards, while the children were at the Burrow.

"How dare they."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Granger-Weasley. I was going to tell you when I saw it this morning, but I didn't...well..." Mariska looked dreadfully embarrassed, and Hermione felt bad for the young woman. She overcame her horror long enough to try to reassure the younger woman.

"Merlin, it's not your responsibility, Mariska. I wouldn't have wanted to tell me either. Really, don't worry about it. I just wish it hadn't gotten out. But I suppose that was a rather silly thing to hope for." At least the paper didn't seem to have gotten wind of Hermione's lunches with Malfoy. Now that would be front page material, she was certain, and the thought of how careless she'd been, in retrospect, made her feel tense and ill. She hadn't even done anything untoward with Malfoy, but the press wouldn't play it that way, and Hermione knew which story Ron would choose to believe.

"Do you mind if I take it?"

"Not at all, Mrs Granger-Weasley. I - I'm sorry about..." Mariska offered helplessly, and Hermione managed a weak smile, nodding thanks, and then escaping into her office. She sat down at her desk and flung the paper down onto it, checking the clock with half an eye. It was ten to two, and Thornton was usually right on time. So no time to talk to Ron about the issue, although she did schedule a text to go out as soon as her mobile had signal again - between the magic and the Ministry's depth underground, the signal was all but non-existent. _Check page seven of today's paper. We'll need to go see the children first thing tomorrow,_ it read, and nothing else. There was nothing else to say.

Then she sat forward over her desk, shoulders hunched as she glared at the article. And then she folded it up decisively and pulled out the information she would need for Thornton. There was absolutely no point in dwelling on things that she couldn't change, and which only upset her. She had more bloody self-control than that, Hermione told herself, as she tried desperately not to think about the devastation that one little article would wreak on her life.

She would need to visit the children asap, and explain what was going on, because there was no way that they wouldn't find out. She would need to contact her lawyer and see if he could badger the Daily Prophet into not printing any more about them. She would need to deal with a flood of owls and firecalls from 'concerned' friends and colleagues. Damn Ron to hell for triggering this. If he'd had to proposition someone, why couldn't it have been someone who'd known how to keep their damned mouth shut?

This was all Ron's fault. Rose and Hugo's inevitable distress, and the teasing they would probably get, the humiliation Hermione would suffer, and the damage to her reputation - the Ministry didn't like scandal, and in the Wizarding world any hint of potential legal separation was scandal. Living separately wasn't such a big deal in the Wizarding world, but Hermione wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than divorce should things not work out, and she had no doubt that the reporters at the Daily Prophet had guessed that - her Muggle tendencies showing through.

Hermione lost herself to negativity despite her best efforts, and when Mariska knocked on the door, she had to blink back tears.

"Your two o'clock is here, Mrs Granger-Weasley."

Hermione smiled with brittle composure, sitting up straighter and shoving the newspaper in a desk drawer, wondering despite herself if Thornton had seen the article. At least the polite, painfully formal accountant would be unlikely to mention it, if he had.

"Thank you, Mariska. Please send him in." She would get through today, she told herself, and then she would go home, drink a bucket of wine, and cry into a cushion.

* * *

 _Professor Flitwick,_

 _I am writing to inform you that I shall need to remove Rose and Hugo from Hogwarts tomorrow lunchtime, to spend the lunch hour with me in Hogsmeade. You may have heard of or read the article Daily Prophet published today, on the separation of their father and I._

 _Unfortunately, the paper managed to get that particular fact correct, and up until now the children have been unawares, as we saw no need to inform them until matters were decided. It will no doubt be very distressing for the children to have read the article, or to hear about it from school mates. I should like to be able to explain the situation to them myself, in person._

 _Please owl me as soon as possible, to let me know where to collect them from._

 _Regards,_

 _Hermione J. Granger-Weasley_


	10. Chapter 10

10.

The children were sitting on the bench outside the Headmaster's office when Hermione came down the stairs, the gargoyle having twisted aside to let her pass. Professor Flitwick had kindly allowed her to use the floo in his office, which was also the way they would be leaving for The Three Broomsticks, where Hermione had a private room booked for the three of them. They both looked miserable, and Hermione knew immediately that they'd found out, and her heart ached for them.

"Mum!" Hugo cried, and ran to her like the little boy he still was, really, and always would be to Hermione. But Merlin, he was grown. He'd shot up since leaving for Hogwarts, and Hermione found herself with an armful of gangly, lanky boy, whose dark hair flopped into his eyes as he pulled back from the hug and looked at her with mournful, dark eyes. He was nearly her height, Hermione realised with a shock. God, how had that happened? "Mum, it's not true, is it?"

"Of course it's true," Rose said disdainfully as she got up, anger clouding her face. "Don't be so silly, Hugo."

"Rose! He's not being silly," Hermione snapped automatically, holding out an arm and drawing Rose into a quick, hard hug. The girl relented a little, but she was still stiff and angry when Hermione let her go.

"But yes, the Daily Prophet had it mostly right. Mostly," Hermione hastened to add, because the overall tone had been horribly sordid and tacky, and really it wasn't like that at all. It was sad, and horrible, but not sordid. Except possibly Ron hitting up Della Carpenter, but even that had been made to sound worse than it really was.

Rose's mouth twisted as if she'd been sucking on lemons. "See?" she muttered to Hugo, who elbowed her and prompted a yelp and a punch to his arm, and then Hermione had to snap their names out furiously, and grab Hugo's wrist before he elbowed Rose again.

"Stop it, you two! Behave yourselves! You're acting like toddlers. I know that this is a shock, but it hasn't exactly been easy for me - or your father either."

"Seems like he's bounced back all right," Rose muttered darkly, while Hugo nodded - in agreement with his sister now. Hermione sighed harshly.

"That part was presented entirely misleadingly, you two," she told them, gritting her teeth at having to defend Ron. She was already furious at him in a number of ways, which had only been compounded by the twenty-five voice messages he'd left on her mobile, and the twelve texts, after his initial call and apology that no, he had work and so he wouldn't be able to make it to lunch with the children.

Hermione had all but begged him to come, only for him to reiterate his awkward refusals over and over again. She'd hung up on him in the end, and hadn't listened to any of the subsequent voice messages, or read the texts - simply texted Harry and told him to tell Ron to leave her alone. Perhaps it wasn't fair to involve Harry, but Hermione couldn't bear the thought of interacting directly with Ron right now. "Yes, your father asked a woman for a drink, but it was meant in an entirely friendly manner, and not because he was trying to -"

"Mu-um, oh for the Grey Lady's sake, please stop!" Rose begged as Hugo wrinkled up his nose and deliberately made retching sounds.

"Oh my god, you two. All right, I'm not saying anything! Just stop it. You're embarrassing me," Hermione said, although there was no one in the corridor that she could see. "Come on, upstairs into Professor Flitwick's office, and we'll floo to The Three Broomsticks for lunch, and talk there, in private."

* * *

Lunch went as well as Hermione could have expected. Which wasn't that well. Hugo cried, and Rose ended up on the verge of tears, as did Hermione. She couldn't tell the children that she would fix everything. She couldn't assure them it would all work out. She realised that she couldn't even tell them that she and Ron loved each other in that way, because did they? Hermione didn't know anymore.

All she could tell them was that she and Ron both loved them very much, and that whatever happened, they would be loved and cared for by both Hermione, their father, and all their extended family. Lashing out in her hurt, Rose yelled at Hermione that she was a terrible wife who couldn't keep Ron happy - that one had stung - and Hugo had gotten angry with Rose for saying that, and tried to defend Hermione. She hated that they seemed to have automatically taken sides - they should be supporting each other through this.

In the end, Hermione had needed to threaten their weekly pocket money in order to get them to sit down and be quiet. She told them very bluntly that they had behaved terribly, and that as a family they needed to stick together, and be kind and understanding toward each other, just as she and Ron were trying to be. She wasn't sure if it had sunk in or not. Rose had asked to go back to school shortly after that, and Hugo had agreed that he wanted to go too, albeit in a quiet, apologetic sort of voice that made Hermione want to weep.

"Of course," she had told them as cheerfully as possible. And then when she'd hugged them goodbye in the Headmaster's office, under the quiet, watchful eyes of the portraits, their bodies stiff and resentful in her arms: "I'm so sorry that your father and I are hurting you like this. It's a situation that's not fair on anyone, but especially unfair for you two. I love you both. Very much."

She had gotten mumbled goodbyes in response, without any expressions of love, and when she'd flooed home to the empty house in Wandsworth, she'd leant her forehead against the mantel and wept, resenting Ron bitterly for not being there. He said she prioritised work over family, but Hermione thought it was the other way around. They had needed him today, all of them, and he hadn't been there. He'd been too busy with a damned league meeting. Christ, if anyone had asked her at that moment, Hermione would have said she never wanted to see Ron again, and meant it.

* * *

Even though she'd cancelled her few appointments for the day, Hermione went into work at 2pm - despite still feeling like a shaky mess. Sitting at home with nothing to do except wallow in her misery was worse than trying to distract herself with work. Mariska seemed surprised to see her, but didn't say a word, thank Merlin. She simply brought Hermione a large coffee, a triple chocolate muffin, and all the recent case files Hermione had been working on over the past week, with an empathetic smile.

It was hard to focus, and Hermione didn't get much accomplished - research was slow going when you kept suddenly needing to burst into tears, and having to pinch the bridge of your nose and breath slowly until the urge passed. By the time the end of the day rolled around, Hermione had only accomplished a third of the work she usually would have. But as there was nothing to go home to, Hermione decided it didn't matter - she would simply stay late. She said goodnight to Mariska when the younger woman left, and continued scribbling away in her office with the door open as gradually, one by one, the offices in her department emptied of people - lights dimming low, and corridors falling silent.

Gradually, Hermione's emotions quieted, and she lost herself in her reading; dry case files, yes, but still distracting. So the knock at her doorframe scared the living daylights out of her. She dropped the file and yelped, jerking her head up to the doorway only to see a ruefully smiling Malfoy standing there, in shirtsleeves and dress trousers, his suit jacket over his arm.

"Sorry," he apologised sincerely, a smile still playing around the edges of his mouth, and Hermione swore, and huffed a weak laugh - he really had scared the shite out of her.

"Jesus, Malfoy. You walk like a cat. Make some noise, next time," she half-scolded, hand pressed over her heart, which was still slamming too hard in her chest.

"I did actually, Granger," he defended himself mildly, wandering in without invitation and slouching down into the seat opposite the desk, stretching out his long legs and settling in with a sigh of comfort. "But you were utterly lost in your work. And at nearly nine pm, I might add. What are you still doing here at this obscene time? Hearing tomorrow?"

"No. I just..." she began, and trailed miserably to a halt. God, it sounded pathetic to say that she couldn't face going home to an empty house tonight, not after the day she'd had. Especially considering she'd be admitting it to Malfoy. But his expression immediately shifted to comprehension as she snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed. He nodded knowingly, his eyes sympathetic.

"I know what you mean, Granger. I don't particularly enjoy the evenings either. They have a tendency to be long and lonely, when you're sitting in by yourself every night," he said lightly, as if it were easy to admit that kind of vulnerability. Hermione swallowed hard, eyes fixing to his stark grey ones.

"Yes," she admitted - a confession for a confession, and now they were even, in an exchange that she didn't even consciously think about. "I often spend nights alone, but today - today the house feels empty and cold and awful, and I'd rather work than go home and sit and wallow in my self-pity."

"I saw the article," Malfoy said softly then, as if he was afraid to hurt her by mentioning it too loudly, his face full of an intimate understanding. "About Weasley propositioning the other woman." Hermione flinched at the sound of that - 'the other woman'. But Malfoy was filled with empathy, not cruel mischief. Maybe he had gone through similar things with Astoria, only managed to use his contacts to keep it out of the papers. There was no way to know for sure, save asking him, but the look on his face certainly made it seem like he had.

"I'm sorry, Granger," Malfoy said very kindly, then: "He's a stupid fucking prat."

Hermione huffed a surprised half-laugh, smiling as she answered him - her first genuine smile all day. "Thanks, Malfoy." And she meant it. She felt better just hearing his offhand dismissal of Ron. She was surrounded by people who loved Ron, she realised then - everyone, all of her friends, they all were Ron's friends or family too. Malfoy and Mariska were perhaps the only people she spoke to her weren't friends with Ron. "And I won't disagree with you, on that," she added, meaning Ron, and Malfoy smirked.

"You're welcome, Granger." Then he stopped - paused, the sense that he was going to say something else hanging in the air, filling the dim, quiet offices with frisson. Hermione was very acutely aware that they were entirely alone in the night, without prying eyes or curious ears to eavesdrop on them. She wondered idly - deliriously - what Malfoy would do if she got up, rounded the desk, sat herself on his lap and kissed him. She liked to think he would kiss her back.

"Come around for dinner," Malfoy said then, his tone too-casual; a front, a farce, earnestness beneath and she could see it. It wrenched Hermione out of her fantasies into a reality that perhaps wasn't that much different, and what on earth was happening to her? Malfoy's eyes were nervous on hers. "Nothing fancy. Just...some good company to pass the time, instead of working yourself to exhaustion. Poached eggs on toast, several large glasses of wine, bitching about Weasley - or forgetting about him entirely, if you'd rather..." Hermione didn't think he meant that to sound as filthy as it did, judging by the way he flushed and tried to cover himself by mentioning a few wizarding games they could play, but she was far from offended.

"Thank you, Malfoy. That sounds lovely," she said with simple acceptance once he'd stopped rambling about wizarding chess, smiling across the desk at him. He stared at her a few heartbeats longer, looking rather bewildered; Hermione expected he hadn't thought she'd say yes. Certainly not so easily, without any vacillating. She'd stunned him, she thought with some small pleasure at it. But then his composure returned in the blink of an eye, and he was sitting up straight from his slouch, nodding with satisfaction at her acquiescence.

"Come on then, Granger." Malfoy grinned at her as he got to his feet, collecting his suit jacket from the back of the chair and folding it neatly over his arm again. "The night's not getting any younger." He seemed eager beneath his casual drawl, and Hermione found herself suspecting he would be even happier to have the distraction of company than she was.

"All right - hang on," Hermione said as she flipped the file folder she had been reading shut with a sharp crack, and got up from her desk, brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt. She was glad she'd worn something nice today, at least. A dark blue a-line skirt that reached her knees, and a fitted cream silk blouse, which had survived the stress of the day quite well.

On the other hand, her hair was coming down from its bun in wisps, her makeup was nonexistent, and she probably looked puffy-eyed, blotchy, and every day of her almost forty, from crying. Not that it really mattered; she wasn't going on a date, for Merlin's sake. She was just going around to Malfoy's for a casual dinner and wine, because neither of them had any plans, she was miserable, and he sympathised. Nothing more. Nothing untoward.

Hermione eyed Malfoy, standing there lean and handsome, his eyes dark and appreciative on her, and didn't really believe what she was telling herself. It didn't stop her though.

* * *

His house wasn't exactly what Hermione had expected, when she emerged from his large fireplace. It was much smaller, for starters; three bedrooms and a study, he said as he brushed a little soot off his shirt, and two bathrooms - the main one, and one off the master bedroom. The living areas - kitchen, dining, and lounge - Hermione could see were all in one long open space, although it seemed as though the lounge could be shut off by sliding screens.

The walls were a rustic plaster, the ceilings exposed blonde wood beams, the floors a matching pale blonde wood, the furniture clearly of quality make, but sleek and simple. There was a minimalist feel to it that was kept from starkness by the rough plaster, the wood, the old-fashioned kitchen range, and the sprinkling of clutter.

There wasn't much, but some books and papers were scattered over the coffee table near the fireplace, along with several empty mugs, and a variety of ties were flung haphazardly onto an armchair nearby. In the dining area, Hermione could see a few empty bottles of Knotgrass Mead on the table, a pair of shoes untidy on the floor, and a jersey draped messily over the back of a chair.

It was odd, seeing Malfoy this way. Hermione had thought that he would be compulsively tidy at home; just as perfectly composed as he always seemed to want to be perceived as in public. But instead he was...well, still tidier than the vast majority of men Hermione knew, but nowhere near perfect. He was still Malfoy, but a relaxed Malfoy. And just that was odd enough to feel surreal.

"Sorry about the mess," he said without embarrassment, and waved his wand - sending the books and papers into neat stacks, and the mugs floating toward the kitchen. His loosely knotted tie he tugged off altogether, and tossed over to join the others on the armchair, before turning a charming smile on her. "Shall I crack a bottle of wine?"

"Oh god yes, " Hermione said fervently, stepping out of her low heels and leaving them by the fireplace. Malfoy took her coat like an old world gentleman, and ushered her to sit on the couch in front of the fireplace. She sank into it, sideways with her leg folded up beneath her, so that she could rest an arm over the low back and watch Malfoy as he moved about.

He hung her coat in a foyer off the dining area, and kicked off his shoes, besocked feet whisper-quiet on the wood flooring. "White or red?" he called, craning his neck to see her.

"Red, I think," Hermione called back, feeling enormously strange sitting there in Malfoy's home, curled up on his couch like they were friends, or incipient lovers. It was, quite frankly, surreal. She knew perfectly well that she was playing a dangerous game, but with the way Ron had been acting lately, she didn't particularly give a fig.

"I have several bottles of a good Elf-made dessert wine?" Malfoy suggested, and Hermione nodded.

"Sounds lovely." She cast her gaze about the room as Malfoy rummaged about, opening the bottle and retrieving two glasses. They sounded like crystal from the way they chimed as he lifted them in one hand by their stems, and they clinked together.

The walls were rather stark; the plaster was quite different to the usual pureblood wizarding aesthetic, and the usual portraits were nowhere to be seen. There was a large, framed wizarding photograph of Malfoy, Astoria, and a much younger Scorpius formally posing on one wall, but no more photos of anyone but Scorpius. And those were everywhere; only a few on the white walls, but half a dozen small framed photographs were on the large bookcase that stood against a wall, several baby photos on the mantelpiece, and others here and there on end tables and other surfaces.

Malfoy clearly cared for Scorpius deeply; the sort of father whose child was the centre of his universe. Hermione smiled up at him, full of warm feelings as he deposited the wine and glasses on the end table, and sank down facing her at the other end of the couch.

"Would you like a fire lit?"

"Why not?" she said agreeably, and Malfoy swished his wand, sending wood piling itself neatly up in the fireplace, before shooting sparks at it to set it alight in a bright blaze. He poured the wine then, as heat bathed her pleasantly and set her cheeks to glowing, and passed her a glassful. It was sweet and faintly fizzy on her tongue, and deliciously strong. Heady stuff.

"So, Granger. Would you like to tell me about your day?" he asked her with a gentle sort of interest, and Hermione realised that yes, she did actually. She told him about the disastrous attempt to explain things to the children, and how Ron hadn't been bothered to come, and how people kept looking at her, and she knew exactly what they were all thinking. She poured it all out in a slew of quiet, emotion-strained words while Malfoy listened sympathetically, and then she gulped down her entire glass of wine and let out a shaky sigh and apologised.

"I'm sorry. I'm a bit of a mess, I'm afraid." Malfoy refilled her glass, shaking his head in dismissal of her apology.

"It's quite all right, Granger. Bitch all you want to. I don't mind. I know all too well what it's like not to have anyone you can talk to when it all starts to turn to shite," he said quite openly, and Hermione raised a brow.

"You and Astoria...?" she ventured, uncertain of how to phrase her question. Malfoy seemed to understand what she was getting at, though.

"Unfortunately. The marriage was unfortunate, I mean, not the separation. That was a relief," he added dryly, smirking at Hermione over his glass of wine.

"Tell me," she said with an edge of wickedness. "Make me feel better about the wreck I'm making of my marriage, by sharing yours." He laughed.

"All right then, Granger. Astoria and I have been married since I was nineteen and she was seventeen - just after the war ended, basically. An arranged marriage, of course. Neither of us had much say in the matter. We were never well-matched, but it wasn't terrible to begin with. We never got along, but we managed to negotiate a...well, a truce. By the time Scorpius was finally born though, the years of trying and failing to produce an heir had worn away at the friendliness between us. Astoria's disinterest in Scorpius only compounded things." Malfoy sighed, swirling his wine in the glass.

"I don't blame her, honestly. She went through four pregnancies - all of which went to term - before having Scorpius." His mouth tightened, shadows of grief in his eyes. "All of them were stillborn, or died shortly after birth. By the time Scorpius was born, I don't think she was capable of risking loving a child again. She went through the motions until he was weaned at three, and then she started going holidaying." Malfoy said the word with careful emphasis.

"It started off with weekends to the country, and then snowballed. Half her time is spent overseas somewhere now, dallying with god knows who - discreetly, of course. Never even a rumour reaches us here. She's good like that, at least." Malfoy took a sip of his wine, shrugging. "I don't mind that. It's her disinterest in Scorpius that I can't stand. He deserves a mother who cares about him more than she does about bedding some oiled up fuckboy in Spain."

"Malfoy..." The word came out full of sympathy, Hermione's mind still fixated on the revelation that Malfoy had four children who were stillborn, or had died at birth - in his arms? Had he held his child in his arms while it had taken its last breaths? "God, Malfoy." Her hand found its way onto his knee as she shuffled closer. "I am so sorry. I - I had a miscarriage between Rose and Hugo, and I can't imagine..."

"Thanks. But...it was a long time ago. I - I still think 'what if', you know? But the grief...it does get less, eventually. Especially after Scorpius was born. That made it easier. Memories fade. For me, at least. I'm not sure they ever did for Astoria." He looked up, meeting her gaze as his hand curled around hers, squeezing. "And I'm sorry for your loss too."

"Thanks." She squeezed his hand back, before by mutual unspoken agreement, they released each other's fingers. "But I was never that devastated, to be honest. Ron took it harder than I did, I think. Nearly as badly as he did when I said I didn't want any more children after Hugo." She grimaced, but kept her tone light, sipping at the wine, slowly but steadily draining the second glass. Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her comment.

"Let me guess - Weasley wanted at least half a dozen children?"

"Correct. And I most emphatically did not. I saw how difficult things were for Molly, with all the boys and Ginny - I wasn't about to saddle myself with that burden. Not when I wanted a career." Hermione sighed, gloom settling over her - and then shook it off, smiling brightly at Malfoy, determined to enjoy this strange, surreal evening to the fullest. She was curled up on Malfoy's sofa - Malfoy, of all people - enjoying wine in front of a blazing fire, and that had to be the strangest thing to have happened to her in the past decade. "But that's ancient history now, anyway. Let's talk about something other than our infuriating partners."

Malfoy acquiesced quite happily, as he topped up Hermione's glass. And that was how they ended up spending the rest of the evening getting more and more intoxicated, and talking about everything from Muggle technology, to Hermione's ideas for reform in the wizarding legal system, to Malfoy's work in the school in Ilkley - once Hermione pinned him down as indeed being the benefactor of said school. It was fun - they didn't always agree on the issues they discussed, but their debate was lively and teasing, and Hermione realised just how much she loved being able to have intelligent discussions. She never got to have that kind of conversation with Ron.

Time flew. It was just past midnight and they'd polished off two and a half bottles of wine between them, before Hermione finally realised how late it was. She tried to blink away the dizzy, heady glow of the wine and failed; pleasantly tipsy but not quite properly drunk.

"Oh Merlin, look at the time! And I have a hearing in the morning. I'm sorry, Malfoy, to drink all your wine and run, but I'm not young enough to stay up all night anymore - not when I have work the next day, at least." She was apologetic as she got up, wobbling a little - feeling stiff from sitting so long, and if she wasn't honest with herself, just a little bit drunk. Malfoy stood as well, setting down his wine glass - a tell-tale flush to his cheeks as well, although he was perfectly steady on his feet.

"Of course. Merlin, I didn't realise it was so late."

"Neither did I." Hermione bit her lip - shameless flirting, she scolded herself, but she hadn't meant to, it had just happened - and then admitted as she turned away to retrieve her shoes: "This was the most enjoyable evening I've had in quite some time."

"The feeling is mutual," Malfoy said, voice a little lower than usual, honey-rich and dark with meaning. Hermione looked up as she slipped her shoes on, one hand at the mantel to balance herself, and he was watching her with a gaze that was blatantly appreciative. Oh god. A thrill ran through her, from the top of her head right to her toes, and she found herself suddenly breathless, lips dry. She resisted the urge to wet them with her tongue, looking away fast as her cheeks flared hot, scooping her handbag up from the floor by the coffee table.

"Are you all right to apparate?" he asked solicitously, and she nodded, not trusting her voice, following in his wake as he ushered her toward the door, hand hovering at her back - the barest touch but she was acutely aware of it. She wanted to stop in her tracks, so that it would press against her. She wanted his hands on her. Oh god.

"I really did enjoy tonight, Hermione," he said earnestly as they stopped in the small foyer by the front door, his gaze meeting hers. The breath slammed out of her again. He was standing so close she could smell the barest hint of his cologne, looking down at her with those grey eyes burning into her, and that full, soft-looking mouth, and Hermione wanted him. Badly. She cleared her throat in an attempt to not sound strangled by lust, voice coming out husky anyway, betraying her.

"So - so did I." Hermione took a sharp breath, admitted without thought, damn her drunkenness: "A little too much, perhaps." He smirked.

"There's no such thing as too much enjoyment."

"That's very hedonistic of you, Malfoy," she teased, caught up in the thrill of the moment, shifting on her feet so that she swayed infinitesimally closer to him - close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his body heat.

"Isn't it just?" he asked rhetorically, and then his hand came up to cup her jaw - a delicate touch that felt like heaven, washing her with delicious dizziness. She stared up at him, waiting - it was his move and she would accept whatever came next, her heart lodged in her throat. He smiled at her then - surprisingly sweet - and bent his head. Her eyes fluttered shut as he kissed her - a soft press, just at the corner of her mouth, that lingered long enough for Hermione's knees to go to jelly. And then she blinked her eyes open, to his smile, his thumb stroking along the edge of her jaw before falling away.

"A little bit of hedonism isn't always a bad thing, Granger," he said, his voice rough and still dark with want. She swallowed hard, eyes pinned to his, and somehow her hand and his found each other, twining together, his thumb tracing circles on the base of hers.

"No," she agreed hoarsely, soft enough to barely be audible even as close as they were standing. "No, perhaps it's not." Christ. She should really go home before she did something she regretted. She slid her hand from his. "Unfortunately, I still have work tomorrow morning, and..."

"Of course." Malfoy reached out and opened the front door, onto a tidy front path lit by magical lanterns, which led out onto a well-lit narrow cobbled street, a neat row of houses opposite. It looked beautiful, with the moon a picture-perfect crescent in the cloud-drifted sky, and smoke trickling up from one of the chimneys opposite. But then everything looked beautiful right now - Hermione was drunk on wine and Malfoy's kiss still, and her heart felt three sizes too big for her chest, and the world was beautiful.

"Good night, Granger," he said, softly, his gaze intent, and she smiled as she pulled her wand out of her handbag.

"Good night." And then she stepped out onto the front doorstep, and disapparated.


	11. Chapter 11

_Extra bonus chapter today :)_

* * *

11.

That night Hermione fell into bed half-dressed, dropping off seconds after her head hit the pillow, and her sleep was dreamless and deep. When she woke the next morning at the chime of her alarm, the night before came rushing back. The talking, the laughing, the drinking, the kiss. And she wanted to do it again. She did. There was no way to deny it. Oh Merlin, what was she doing? What was wrong with her? She was supposed to be more sensible than this.

Hermione groaned and rolled out of bed, groggy and internally panicking as she got ready for work. She was not the sort of woman who let other men kiss her. She and Ron might be on a break but that didn't mean it was all right for her to be unfaithful. Flirting with Malfoy was one thing, but kissing - even a chaste kiss like that? That was unacceptable. She had crossed a line. And worse, she wanted desperately to cross it some more.

She drank her coffee standing at the kitchen bench and staring unfocusedly out the window, trying to think about the hearing, and only able to think of Malfoy. Of how much fun she'd had, quite apart from the sexual tension. She never felt like that with Ron - what she and Ron had was a comfortable sort of familiarity. They had nothing in common save their years at Hogwarts, and their children. No interests, no ambitions, no personality traits. They were as unlike as could be, and while the children had always given them common purpose, now with the children off at Hogwarts, Hermione was seeing things the way they truly were.

What did that mean for the future? Right now, Hermione didn't think it was very hopeful for her and Ron, regardless of the flirtation with Malfoy. But the hearing was at eleven, and Hermione didn't have time to stand about and mope; she needed to review her notes. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, shrugged a light cardigan on over her floral shirt dress, slipped on a pair of low heels, and grabbed her handbag, heading through the floo with a flare of green fire.

* * *

There was a rap at Hermione's office door shortly after ten that Hermione recognised as Mariska's, and she called for the younger woman to come in. Mariska looked altogether too smug when she slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind her. Hermione arched a brow, making her expression stern. She wasn't in the mood for silliness.

"Mr Malfoy is here with your coat, Mrs Granger-Weasley," Mariska said, and then pressed her lips together tightly, clearly trying not to grin madly. Hermione's blood ran cold, and she resisted the urge to sink her head into her hands. Clearly she was incapable of any kind of discretion, and Malfoy wasn't exactly trying to be discreet either, just turning up in her damned office with her Merlin-damned coat. She smiled sweetly at Mariska.

"Send him through, would you please, Mariska."

"Of course, Mrs Granger-Weasley. And I don't want to over-step, but...I can't blame you," Mariska said confidentially, her tone the verbal equivalent of a wink as she hovered by the door, her hand on the doorknob. "After Mr Weasley's behaviour, and all."

"Oh god, Mariska, it's not like that at all, honestly," Hermione protested, but her cheeks went hot and she was rather certain her secretary wouldn't believe her. "I went around to his for a couple of drinks after work last night, that's all."

"Oh. Yes. Of course," Mariska said apologetically, clearly not believing a word of it. "I'll send him through." And then she ducked out the door with a small grin, leaving it ajar. There was a brief murmur of talk audible before the door swung open again - just enough time for Hermione to check that she didn't look like a fright. She looked tired around the eyes, but presentable, her hair tamed into waves today and pinned back at one side, long enough to fall down just past her shoulders and not too fluffy.

"Good morning, Granger," Malfoy said lightly as he entered: "You forgot this, last night." He shut the door behind him, her coat draped over his arm as he dragged his eyes over her. "You look none the worse for wear this morning. Got plenty of beauty sleep after all?"

"Oh my god." Hermione found it quite impossible to contain her mortification. "Malfoy, you do realise that now everyone is going to think we're having an affair!" He shrugged, smirking a little as he hung her coat up and crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite hers, unbuttoning his suit jacket with a twist of one hand.

"They already thought that, Granger. And they're still wrong about it." His smirk grew. "So far."

Hermione's breath stuttered, and she couldn't help the way her teeth caught at the corner of her bottom lip, and her eyes slid coyly away from his. God. So far. The effect he was having on her was positively ridiculous. She forced her face into some semblance of normality, and met his eyes again, trying for sternness.

"That's true," she opened with, purposely vague and noncommittal, unable to supress her smile altogether despite her best efforts. So far. She wouldn't encourage or dismiss that - not now, at least. "But I'd rather not provide them with grist for their rumour mill. It will make my life far more difficult if Ron hears about it. Especially right now, with things...how they are." A flash of what looked like genuine repentance crossed Malfoy's face.

"Shit. I'm too used to a marriage where neither person particularly cares what the other does, so long as it isn't splashed all over the papers. I apologise, Granger. I should have thought of that." Malfoy sounded sincerely apologetic, sitting uncomfortable in the chair now, as though he wasn't sure whether he should stay or go. Hermione hesitated a moment, and then caved in the face of his obvious remorse, waving a hand and brushing off the incident.

"It's not a big deal I suppose, Malfoy. It's not your fault that people jump to conclusions, and that Ron is on a hair trigger. Just please...next time this sort of thing happens, remember that I don't have the same freedoms you enjoy."

He grinned. "Next time?"

Hermione flushed hot at her slip, biting her lip as she turned her face away - trying and failing to hide the blush and what it revealed. Caught in the act, so to speak. She hadn't wanted to appear eager, or as though she expected last night to happen again. She had wanted to leave the matter entirely until Malfoy extended another invitation, whereupon she could casually accept, with suitable nonchalance. Let him be the one showing interest, not her, the staid, married woman. Well that had gone out the window entirely, hadn't it? Oh god, how horribly embarrassing.

"I have a hearing soon, Malfoy. I really should be brushing up on my opening," she said briskly, flipping open a file that actually had nothing to do with the case this morning. She glanced up at Malfoy, who sat stretched out in the chair still, a smirk on his lips, and Hermione couldn't stop remembering what they had felt like against hers. Soft and warm, and very gentle, lingering but not long enough. Not enough. She suddenly felt extremely warm and breathless; to be fair, it had been quite some time since she and Ron had sex that actually satisfied her. Hermione wasn't surprised that she was...extremely interested. She had needs, after all. And oh god that sounded just awful.

She turned her eyes hurriedly back down to the file in her hands, completely unaware of a single word scrawled on the parchment, all of it a blur. She was not some horny teenager.

"Lunch, then?" Malfoy asked, and Hermione's gaze flew back to him, wide and startled. He wasn't even trying to moderate his interest in her - he couldn't be any more blatant if he tried. And Hermione had to admit, that was extremely flattering. "To celebrate what will no doubt be a successful hearing?"

"I..." A dozen different things flew through Hermione's head, the foremost of them being: what on earth would Ron say about it if he found out? Which was not that unlikely, Hermione realised now, with office gossip being the way it was. She nibbled on the inside of her cheek for a moment, eying Malfoy speculatively, and then caved, like she'd known she would from the moment he'd asked her. "Where would we go?"

He grinned, victorious, straightening in his seat. "Well, there are a few options. A lovely little Wizarding café in France that I frequent now and then, especially when I'm on the continent," he begins. "A cheerful little pub in Holyhead, or..."

"Or?" Hermione prompted, raising a brow. She suspected she knew what was coming, an exasperated smile twitching around her lips.

"Or my place. By which I mean, my place for a rather lovely spread of food and a glass or two of wine, not my place for..." he clarified, expression wickedly mischievous, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I realise that, Malfoy, thank you very much," she said primly, a hint of scolding in her tone, that both she and Malfoy knew perfectly well was only teasing. "And I must say, as appealing as cosy café in France sounds, the idea of going somewhere that we shan't be spotted by nosy members of the media is rather more so, today."

"Excellent," Malfoy said, with just a hint of relief in his tone. Had he truly been worried she would turn him down? The idea of that is rather sweet, and far too flattering. "Would half past twelve suit you? I could meet you here, or -"

"I think we'll skip stoking the rumour mill any further, and I'll apparate directly to your front doorstep, shall I?" Hermione interrupted, and Malfoy capitulated with a nod, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. He looked like he could be in the pages of some damn fashion magazine, if not that he was a little old for modelling, Hermione thought with an internal swoon. The man certainly knew how to dress himself; the cut and style of his clothing was an impeccable melding of Victorian and modern elements, and the dark charcoal of the frock coat was his colour - flattering his pale complexion, and making his grey eyes steely and clear.

"I'll see you at twelve-thirty then, Granger. Good luck with the hearing," he said smoothly, and then he was gone, striding out of her office and pulling the door to behind him, leaving Hermione in flustered silence, pressing the cool backs of her hands to her hot cheeks.

* * *

Lunch was a spread of cold meats, cheeses, and other sandwich makings, paired with a bottle of Daisyroot Draught, and finished with a fresh fruit salad Malfoy had made himself.

When she arrived, Hermione kicked off her heels at the door, uncorked the Daisyroot Draught herself and poured them both a glass, browsed Malfoy's bookshelves critically, pronounced the private back garden she discovered he had through the French doors in the lounge 'delightful', and about the time they were sitting outside under a striped lawn umbrella on a rug to eat their delicious spread al fresco, realised that she was probably entirely too comfortable, and she wasn't sure how it had happened.

She paused midsentence - they were talking Muggle authors that Hermione thought Malfoy might appreciate - and stared at him a moment. In shirtsleeves, his suit jacket and waistcoat abandoned inside, sprawled propped up on an elbow gazing at Hermione in absorption as he picked at the food and listened to her talk. Hermione gulped. This was...this was nothing like she had thought she would ever do, and it terrified her that she wanted to keep doing it. Like a junkie who needed a fix, she wanted to keep seeing Malfoy again and again - to be listened to, and bantered with, and fed delicious things by a man who seemed to know how to romance a witch.

"Granger?" Malfoy prompted curiously, after licking a smear of mayonnaise off his knuckle. She blinked and dragged herself back to the present - to the sunny skies and the pleasant company, and no kissing anywhere in sight. It was all just perfectly fine. No need to be concerned at all, she told herself firmly.

"Sorry. Off with the fairies."

"Is that...a Muggle saying? For...being distracted, yes?" he asked uncertainly, and Hermione laughed and nodded, and let the conversation segue.

Before she left - late for work and with flushed cheeks, happy and light - Malfoy gave her a rectangle wrapped in blue and green striped paper, with a gold ribbon tied about it that fell in shiny curls. It was a book, clearly. She went to open it, and he shook his head, laying his hand over hers and stilling it.

"Open it in your office, Granger," he told her, and then placed a kiss on her pinked cheek, and opened the front door.


End file.
